THC More Chill
by averagetoaster
Summary: Jeremy finally takes Michael up on his offer to get stoned in his basement. With a bad case of the munchies, no parental supervision, and the power of friendship, who knows what could happen? Based on Be More Chill. Comments really make my day so much better, so don't be afraid to share thoughts or ideas!
1. Chapter 1: A First Time for Everything

Don't do drugs, kids.

After my last fic, I wanted to focus on something happier. Something like a hero's journey, but with more friendship and recreational drug use.

This takes place in an AU where Mario Party 4 is an N64 game. I didn't do enough research on this one. Oops.

If you have any suggestions, critiques, comments, or questions, don't be afraid to share.

Summary: Jeremy finally takes Michael up on his offer to get stoned in his basement. With a bad case of the munchies, no parental supervision, and the power of friendship, who knows what could happen?

* * *

" _Don't worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing gonna be all right."_

The pill-shaped speaker cheerily blasts the tune, sitting on a worn-out wooden coffee table in Michael's basement. A few feet away, two teenage boys sit on the carpeted floor, huddled around a thin glass object being held in the shorter boy's right hand. One of the boys, brazenly wearing worry on his face, sits cross-legged with both of his hands clenched firmly on his knees. He takes a moment to tug on each of the sleeves of his blue jacket before returning his hands back to their original position. His friend, on the other hand, seems much more relaxed. He almost teasingly waves the object in front of the taller boy's face, then sets it down and reclines on a stack of pillows behind him. After a few more moments, he slips his hand into the pocket of his red sweatshirt and pulls out a small plastic bag half-full of a shredded green substance. He sets the bag down on the floor in front of him and looks up at his friend, shooting him a wild grin. The other boy stares down at the bag, a mix of nervousness and determination on his face.

"Y- um- you said your parents wouldn't be home for how long?" He fidgets with his sleeves again, staring down at the floor.

"Don't even worry about it, Jeremy! They shouldn't be home for another two days at the very least, so there's no need to freak out about it. Not that you'll be worried for much longer, anyways." He giggles and lightly elbows Jeremy in the arm.

"And you're _sure_ nobody will find out about this? It's kind of- you know- _illegal."_ The taller teen glances up at his friend. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea, after all. We could forget about this whole thing and play Bomberman sober. Or Ocarina of Time- I brought my Nintendo 64 in my backpack."

"I've never been caught before. Honestly, nobody will even be able to see us down here. Look- you don't have to do anything you don't want to, but I can promise that everything will be _much_ less stressful after one puff." He shuffles over to Jeremy's backpack and pulls out the Nintendo 64, along with a few classic multiplayer games. "Hey, I'll even let you take the first hit if you'd like. It's your first time, you should be excited! And like Marley always said," He belts along with the song, " _every little thing gonna be alright!"_

Jeremy pauses for a moment to think. He _has_ been waiting for a chance to experiment since he started high school, and with Michael by his side, it _would_ be much safer than if he was on his own, or with strangers… Not to mention, they probably won't be able to find another night within the next millennium where both of Michael's parents are out of the house.

But it would be illegal. Highly illegal. If anyone saw him, and his father found out, he wouldn't be allowed to see Michael again. While his father doesn't have enough dignity to wear pants 90% of the time, he's still authoritarian enough that he refuses to let Jeremy hang out with girls, drug-users, and the like. He can only imagine how absolutely enraged his old man would be if he saw Jeremy lighting up as early as his sophomore year in high school. Now that he thinks about it, maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing after all. Ever since the divorce, his dad hasn't exactly been… present. Not completely. Sure, he's home often, and Jeremy gets to see him daily, but he acts like a completely different person. He sleeps in until noon whenever he's able, he never leaves the house when he doesn't have to, and he refuses to do things as simple as _wearing pants_ unless Jeremy scolds him. Maybe an act of rebellion would wake Jeremy's father up, on the off chance he found out about this.

"Hit me with your best shot, Michael."

"Now _that's_ what I like to hear!" Michael slams the glass object, a simple, red-tinted bong, onto the carpet in front of him. He's as excited as a preteen at a One Direction concert. "I saved my best shit for an occasion like tonight. You're not gonna _believe_ how this feels. I- I'm going to go get some ice." He stands up and rushes up the stairs towards his kitchen.

Jeremy trails behind, a bit confused. Having never smoked before, he has no idea why Michael would need ice- unless, of course, he's planning on burning himself? Maybe the smoking would make his lips hot? But at the parties he had been to in the past, none of the stoners had used ice. Were they used to it? Shit, he needs a manual. Is there a Wiki-How article for this sort of thing? Jeremy pulls out his phone and begins to look it up, but the internet is loading far too slowly for his liking.

Michael quickly fills a Ziploc bag with ice cubes from his freezer, and then turns back to Jeremy. "You can choose a game tonight, just as long as it isn't one of those movie-turned-game adaptations."

"The Spongebob movie game is perfectly va-" Jeremy begins, but he's quickly cut off by Michael.

"Don't lie to yourself."

"You're just a bubble-blowing double baby." Upon hearing this, Michael bursts into laughter. He retaliates. "You're such a goober, Jer."

"A _goofy_ goober, Michael. That's the most important part."

"Shit, how could I have forgotten all my training? I'm a disgrace!" He throws an upturned palm against his forehead, feigning despair. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive my most _grievous_ offense."

Jeremy laughs with him, giving him a friendly shove. "Save the dramatics for after I kick your ass at Mario Party."

"You want to play three or four?"

"You already know the answer."

"Damn it." Michael heads back downstairs, his ice bag clutched under one arm. "You know I suck at the minigames! But with my lucky rolls, we'd make the perfect team." He makes puppy-dog eyes at Jeremy, nearly tripping down the basement stairs in the process.

Jeremy can't contain his laughter. "Don't hurt yourself! I'll set us up on a team while you do, um, whatever you need to do." Michael heads over to the bong and slips a few ice cubes down the neck while Jeremy turns his attention to the TV. He grabs the chosen game from his pile of cartridges that Michael had haphazardly tossed on the floor. Jeremy spends a couple of minutes carefully plugging in the audio and video cords to the television. Is the order red, white, yellow, or white, yellow, red? He always tried to associate the plugs with colors of condiments, so he would remember where to place them. Red is ketchup, yellow is mustard, and white is mayo. He always hated mayo, so that must go on the left. Ketchup was his second favorite, so that followed, and he always had a taste for mustard, so that goes on the right. After this, he plugs the power cord into the wall and the controllers to the N64. He slams Mario Party 4 into the game slot and flips the system on.

Static.

With a sigh, he leans over the N64. This happens so often, he's not sure the system will survive much longer. Jeremy removes the cartridge from the slot, uses two fingers to pry open the plastic flaps, and he blows into the game slot with all of his might. The teen then replaces the game and flips the system back on. A red Nintendo logo against a white background fills the screen. Perfect.

By the time Jeremy finishes setting everything up, Michael has already finished preparing the bong for use.

"You ready to take your first-ever hit?" Michael extends his arm, holding the bong out to Jeremy like a Mormon missionary holding the Bible out to a confused homeowner.

Jeremy, with a glimmer of determination in his eyes, grasps the glass neck as if it's the Holy Grail. He triumphantly clasps a second hand around the neck as Michael holds his now-lit lighter over the small bowl of Mary Jane sticking out of the side of the object. With a smirk, a deep breath, and a rush of adrenaline, Jeremy raises the bong to his lips… and proceeds to take a huge swig of the bong water.


	2. Chapter 2: The Weedening

Summary: Jeremy and Michael are prepared to spend the rest of the night chilling out and playing video games, but they have one problem: Michael's parents only keep all-natural food around the house, and the two teens have a bad case of the munchies.

* * *

Michael laughs so thunderously, and for such an extended period of time, Jeremy is almost positive he'll have a heart attack.

"Ho- ho HOOOOOOOLY SHIT!" Michael hunches over, clutching his stomach, tears streaming down his face. "Oh my GOD, I-" He bursts into another fit of laughter. "I can't- I can't _breathe!_ You're _too_ adorable! _"_ The teen falls onto one side, his face rapidly approaching the hue of a cherry.

Jeremy timidly sets down the bong. "Heh, um, yeah. Maybe you should show me how to do it." He feels like a complete dipshit. Drinking the bong water seemed like a good idea at the time! Why else would he put ice and water into the damned thing, if not to make some sort of spliff soup? Jeremy brings his knees to his chest and slowly pushes the bong away from him.

After a few more moments, Michael finally regains his composure. He sits back up, still snickering, and wipes the tears from his face. "Sure thing, J- *snrk* Jeremy. Pass me the bong."

If this was some obscure off-Broadway musical, this is the point where everyone would break into song.

"Okay, all right, just- just do exactly as I say." Michael takes a deep breath, still trying to contain his giggling.

"Step one:" He stares deep into Jeremy's eyes. "Now, this is important, so pay attention. Put one hand on the neck, the long, thin part."

Jeremy wraps his right hand around the neck. His face is still warm with shame, but he's known Michael long enough that it doesn't bother him very much.

"Step two: you're going to need a glass. Any kind of glass will do; paper, plastic, glass, one of those Starbucks cups- just find a cup." Michael has a mischievous look in his eyes. Something's up.

"What's the cup for?"

"To pu-" Michael stifles a laugh. "To pour the water into, in case you get thirsty later!" He cackles, slapping his knee.

"You don't have to be a dick about it." Jeremy crosses his arms, a slight pout on his face.

"Nononono, its fine- I'll be serious. Just give me a sec." He takes a few more deep breaths. "Okay. Put your hands around the neck."

Jeremy places his hands around the neck of the bong.

"Place your lips in the mouthpiece at the top. Inside the glass. And try to keep any air from flowing through."

The taller teen does so. The glass is cool around his lips. He feels like he looks like a dork, but Michael is in no place to judge, so he doesn't worry about it.

"Now, I'm going to light it up. Inhale slowly. The smoke will build up, then I'll remove the bowl so you can inhale it."

Michael flicks on his lighter, and holds the flame over the marijuana. Within a few seconds, the leaves catch with a gentle glow. Milky smoke fills the chamber of the bong, swirling in an almost hypnotic fashion. After a few more seconds, Michael pulls the bowl out from the side of the bong. Jeremy takes a sharp, deep breath, inhaling a good 80% of the smoke. He begins coughing almost immediately, and the remaining smoke pours out of the bong. Jeremy's mouth feels unbearably dry, and he doesn't feel relaxed or floaty in the slightest.

"Is this another one of your jokes? You must've filled it with, what, oregano? Thyme? Basil, maybe? If your plan was to make me look like a-"

"Cool it with the Italian herbs, Bottura. It takes a minute. Pass it over." Still slightly suspicious, Jeremy hands Michael the bong. Without so much as looking away, Michael relights the kush and takes a hit.

"Just relax. We can start up Mario Party 4 while we wait for it to kick in, okay?" The shorter teen grabs the shittier of the two available controllers and slides the other to his friend. Jeremy takes the controller, mollified at least for the moment. Cheerful startup music booms from the television as the two decide upon the game's settings. After years of gaming, it's almost muscle memory by now. As always, Jeremy chooses to play as Mario while Michael picks Yoshi. The computer players are Luigi and Donkey Kong. Jeremy's in the mood for Boo's Haunted Bash, so he selects that for the game board. Team mode enabled, with Mario and Yoshi on one team, and Luigi and DK on the other. All AIs set to expert difficulty. 20 turns. All minigames. Bonus on. A two-star handicap for Michael. Game on.

The match starts without a hitch. Each character lines up across the screen, and after a brief explanation of the instructions by Boo (which neither of them read; Michael simply mashed the A button until the speech was over) each avatar is allowed to hit a dice block to determine which order they'll play in. Higher rolls play first, of course, and those with low rolls are doomed to sit through everyone else's turn before getting to do so much as view the map. Luigi and Donkey Kong roll a 5 and a 4 respectively, while Jeremy's Mario rolls a 3. Perfect. He's at the back of the pack, and the game hasn't even started. Michael's Yoshi, of course, rolls a 9. He winks at Jeremy.

"Lucky rolls for days."

The first turn is uneventful, other than Yoshi landing on an item space and winning a Mega Mushroom. Jeremy never cared too much about the board game aspect of the game, to be honest. He was in it for the minigames. But Michael always looks so passionate while plotting the best route to each star or how to successfully avoid landing on Bowser spaces, so Jeremy always puts up with it without complaint.

After each character completes their turn, a roulette randomly chooses a minigame for the four to play. And the selection is… Dungeon Duos. Jeremy and Michael exchange a glance, gripping their controllers with fierce determination.

"You ready to kick some AI ass?"

"I just hope I'm on the left side this time, I always do better when I am."

They have only a few more seconds of banter before the game begins. A piercing whistle blow announces the start of the match, and they're off! The two yell instructions at each other, trying to complete the race as fast as possible.

"They'll pass us if you don't speed up!"

"Mash the B button faster, then!"

"They're catching up!"

"If we lose to them I **swear-"**

About halfway through the minigame, Jeremy slowly comes to realize that his brain is becoming more and more foggy. He tries to make Mario jump onto a platform over a gap, but the avatar simply falls into the abyss. Michael snaps his fingers in front of Jeremy's face.

"Focus, Jer! We can't slack off until we reach at _least_ the warp pipe zone."

Jeremy slams a finger on the pause button.

"Waitwaitwaitwaitwait. I think it's starting to kick in."

Michael shoots a grin at his friend. "You still think it was all Italian herbs?"

"Herbs, maybe. Italian, though? Not so much." He pushes the controller away from him, then mumbles, barely audible, "weed isn't Italian, right? If it is- I mean, that bit wouldn't have made sense."

Michael tosses his controller to the floor, then stands up, clapping his hands together. "Well! If you're already too buzzed to play Mario Party, we might as well move onto our next activity for the night: the eating."

"Did you write out a schedule?" Jeremy retorts. "Shit, at this rate, we'll miss nap time!"

"Pfft. Cut it out, Jeremy. Um- we should get going." Michael sheepishly shoves a piece of paper behind his back, and uses his other hand to help Jeremy to his feet. He makes a mental note to reschedule nap time to a later point in the night.

The pair saunters up the basement stairs, ending up in a hallway outside Michael's kitchen. With each step Jeremy takes, it feels as if he's slipping further and further into a dream. His head is clouded and thoughts come and go as if through a thick haze. He sways a bit with each step, but that's perfectly fine because the world sways with him. Michael glances back at Jeremy, and then chuckles to himself.

After a few more moments of walking, the two enter the pristine kitchen. The plethora of chrome appliances is polished to the point that they all reflect their surroundings like a mirror in a Disney movie. The kitchen seems rather large, with enough room for at least a dozen angry PTA mothers to comfortably socialize in. Every drawer is closed completely, and not a single spice container is so much as an inch out of place. The room looks to be better suited for some kind of robot life-form rather than an upper-middle class family of three.

"So, what are you in the mood for? I could probably find something edible in the pantry, but you know how my mom is about food…" He flings open the doors to the walk-in pantry. The shelves are filled up floor to ceiling with strange, natural, "healthy" snack foods. They have everything from vegan egg substitutes to 2-pound containers of pure coconut oil. Michael's mom has been on and off a health kick for the past eleven years or so. She would often serve Greek yogurt and peaches for breakfast, made to look like a sunny-side up egg, or "100% WHOLE GRAIN" cereal with "NO ADDED SUGARS OR PRESERVATIVES," as it said on the front of the box. Overall, it just made visiting Michael's house suck whenever they got hungry. She wouldn't even allow the teen to at regular pizza; she provided a "healthy" version with gluten-free crust and broccoli so bland it could make white bread seem like a delicacy.

"Something sweet would be nice…" The words 'healthy' and 'sweet' don't exactly go hand in hand, especially in the Mell household. While Michael mills around the pantry, Jeremy wanders over to the fridge, hoping to have better luck there. He opens the top door, revealing a bunch of vegan juice mixes (as if juice wasn't already vegan), a few assorted beer bottles, fresh fruits and vegetables, a covered plate of baked goods, and various condiments and sauces, among other things. The plate of pastries catches his eye. The tall teen examines the food further, finding the plate to be solely covered in heavenly looking brownies. Home-made, judging by the lack of packaging. Jeremy takes the wax paper off of the brownies, then pops one in his mouth. Absolutely divine. He takes a bite of another, for good measure.

"Hey, Michael!" Jeremy grabs the plate and turns to his friend. Michael, looking a bit drowsy, begins walking towards him. After only a few steps, his eyes widen. "You never told me you ha-"

"You did _not_ just eat that." Michael freezes in place, deep concern covering his face.

"What's the big deal? If they're for a PTA meeting or something, we can always make more. It isn't that diffic-"

"Those were pot brownies, Jeremy."

"Does it _really_ matter what you used to bake them in? The final product is the same, anyways."

"Weed brownies. They're at least, like, 40% marijuana. And you just ate one."

"One and a half, actually."

"God damn it."

Jeremy stares at the half-eaten pot brownie in his hand. He's heard the horror stories, back when he was forced to take D.A.R.E. in elementary school. If he eats too much marijuana too quickly, he could end up spending his entire night riding the porcelain pony. Or dead, as the anti-drug lectures always taught him. Jeremy shoves the rest of the brownie into his mouth.

"Jeremy, put those back." Michael scurries over to his friend, grabs the plate from his hands, and gently places it back into the refrigerator. "You're lucky those weren't made to be potent. Otherwise, you'd end up unable to move for the rest of the night. We should just find something else to eat. I think I have some fruit snacks stashed in the back of the pantry." He walks back towards the pantry, but Jeremy remains firmly planted by the fridge.

"So what'll happen to me then?" Jeremy makes a vague gesture with his hands. "I'll feel more high for a while? Hmm? Or is it… death?"

"Death? Wha- y- you won't _die_ from weed, dude." Michael sighs, then pauses for a moment. "Pass me a brownie."

Ten minutes later, and Jeremy can fully feel the effects of the marijuana on his mind and body. The game of Mario party has long since been forgotten, and the two teens are occupying themselves by trying to throw fruit snacks so that the other catches it in their mouth, and failing miserably. At least the basement couch is comfortable. Michael tosses a grape fruit snack at Jeremy's open mouth. It lands on his forehead, then bounces off and falls to the floor.

"These gummies aren't exactly filling." Jeremy can feel himself growing more and more hungry by the minute.

"Not when you keep missing them like that. My aim was spot on!" Michael tosses another gummy at Jeremy, this time cherry flavored. It hits his nose, then bounces to the floor.

"Don't lie to yourself." Jeremy stands up, stretching his arms above his head. "I'm not dealing with this. Aren't you tired of always eating your mom's shitty vegan, whole-wheat, gluten-free, grass-fed, avocado toast, no nipple, farm-raised bullshit?"

"You quite done yet? All I heard of that was… nipple? Those brownies must be hitting you hard, Jer."

"Look- the point is we should take the food situation into our own hands. We could easily go to the grocery store, buy a few bags of chips and packs of soda, and eat the evidence before your parents come home. What's the worst that could happen?"

Michael thinks about it for a minute. If the boys are found by police, or some other authority figure, they could face punishment for public intoxication or underage smoking. On the other hand, some actual junk food sounds _really fucking delicious_ right about now. "You know, it _has_ been a few years since I've had 'All Dressed' potato chips."

"That's the spirit!" Jeremy pulls Michael to his feet, the enthusiasm in his voice as clear as day. "Grab your wallet; we have some munchies to cure!"

"You're so easily excitable." Michael grins as he grabs his wallet, which is carefully stashed under the middle couch cushion. Jeremy takes him by the hand and practically drags him up the basement stairs, eager to begin their journey towards the Holy Grail of high-fat junk food. The pair exits through the house's back door, forgetting to lock it behind them. The air is cool on their faces, and the sun is just beginning to set. The sky is filled with vibrant shades of orange, pink, red, and the slightest hint of violet.

"Beautiful, isn't it? We might be able to see the stars tonight." Michael extends an arm towards the sky, as if he could reach out and grab it.

"That's good and all, but I'm hungry as shit." The taller teen crosses his arms, making a beeline for Michael's PT Cruiser.

"Think about it, man! We're so tiny compared to the millions of galaxies in our universe. Why are the burning balls of gas so pretty to look at? What about that draws us in? It's all gas and flame." Michael is still staring at the sky. He could just stand there forever, staring at the sun. Like a jackass. Damn, it's pretty.

"Yeah, that's what barbecues are, and we enjoy that every summer. Not that big of a deal. Why we've evolved to enjoy processed foods over anything natural, however, is another story." If he doesn't eat _something_ soon, he might just starve to death. His stomach feels like it's _eating itself._

"Some scientists theorize that human evolution is reaching a stopping point due to new tech-"

"Right, right, just get in the car." Jeremy huffs. Michael, looking a bit reluctant, meanders over to his car, unlocks it, and slides into the driver's seat. Jeremy takes shotgun, relieved to finally be on the road to satisfying his hunger. Michael buckles up, slams the keys into the ignition, and pulls out of the driveway effortlessly. He turns on the car's CD player; his favorite album by "The Who" is already raring to go. Just as he begins to jam out, Jeremy pipes up from the passenger's seat.

"Isn't it a crime to drive while high?"


	3. Chapter 3: Do You Wanna Ride?

Summary: Jeremy and Michael get into a brief argument, then decide to phone a friend for help.

Except intead of a friend, it's Rich Goranski.

And instead of calling him, they show up at his front porch.

* * *

"Michael, we shouldn't be driving. At all." Jeremy tugs on his friend's sweatshirt sleeve, careful not to pull hard enough to disturb his driving.

"It hasn't been a problem in the past." Michael seems nonplussed, in the American sense of the word.

"Wha- you've _driven under the influence_ in the past?" Jeremy hits Michael on his upper arm- hard. "You could've gotten someone killed! _You_ could've gotten killed! We could be on the road to our deaths right now!" He crosses his arms, trying to formulate a plan that would get both him and Michael out of the car in one piece.

"Nothing bad has ever happened before, chill out." Michael sighs and increases his speed. They must be going at least 20 miles per hour at this point.

"Chill out? Do you know how many people die _every year-?"_ Shit, he has to do _something._ He could call the police, but that would go on both of their criminal records, and get them suspended from school. Jeremy would never hear the end of it from his father, and Michael would probably be banned from seeing him for the rest of his life. That won't cut it. There has to be another solution.

"You're kind of distracting me, Jer." The shorter teen sounds a bit annoyed. He fixes his grip on the steering wheel.

"And the weed isn't? You think _I'm_ the problem here?" Jeremy could knock Michael out, ninja-style, and take the wheel himself. If this was an action movie, that is. Wait, is he in an action movie? It very well could be. There's no proof that this _isn't_ an action movie. No, no, he has to _focus_ on the task at hand. He needs to safely get out of the car, preferably with Michael by his side. Weed is the problem. Not him.

"To be honest, yeah, a bit." Michael's brow is thoroughly furrowed in frustration. Silence fills the car.

"Pull the fucking car over. _Now,_ Michael."

"Jeez, are you my mom? We're already halfway there; just wait, like, five minutes." If Jeremy waits any longer, they'll be out onto the main highway connecting Michael's suburb to the busy town center. Other cars will be out and about, especially on a Friday night. Other people could be hurt, or killed, or _worse_ if Michael isn't careful. Jeremy needs a way to get his attention. He needs to do something dire- something that shows he isn't fucking around.

"I'll- I'll jump out the door. I'm not going to bargain my life against your driving skills."

"Calling the bluff, dude. We're almost there. Wait it out." Michael sounds almost agitated, staring straight ahead without so much as glancing at the taller teen. Jeremy had never seen him look so exasperated in all their years of friendship. Even during the most intense losses in Mario Party, or the most unfair deaths in Apocalypse of the Damned, Michael had always remained coolheaded. Jeremy shifts uncomfortably in his seat for a moment before taking a deep breath to solidify his resolve.

Jeremy flips the small switch on the car door to unlock it. "I'm dead serious. I refuse to stick around and watch as one or both of us get killed due to your bad decision." He unbuckles his seatbelt and cracks open the car door. A piercing beeping fills the car, warning the driver that the passenger's side door is open. Michael glimpses over to Jeremy for less than a second, biting his lip. Since the shorter teen is driving on a side road, thick strips of grass border the street. That will provide a soft place for him to land, provided there are no stray rocks or mailboxes in his path. Jeremy widens the opening of the door, bending his knees in preparation for the jump. He grabs onto the dashboard with his left hand, and stabilizes himself by grasping his seat's headrest in his right hand. He'd always been taught to tuck and roll when jumping from a moving vehicle, but he had never thought that he would ever need to actually use it. The teen stares out through the open door, trying to find the best patch of grass to land in. About two hundred feet ahead, he can see a clear strip of grass, perfect for skidding across. Jeremy takes a deep breath, and begins counting down in his head to when he'll take the leap. Five… Four… Three… Two… One.

Just as Jeremy is about to jump through the open car door, Michael slams on the brakes and pulls over to the side of the road. Jeremy jolts forwards, slamming the left side of his body into the car's dashboard. His head contacts the vinyl with a loud _thunk._ "Ow- Michael!"

"Don't you _ever_ pull something like that again." Michael's knuckles are a ghastly shade of white as he grips the steering wheel, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He shifts the car to park, then looks up at Jeremy.

"Jeez, you couldn't have slowed down a bit first?" Jeremy rubs his head with his good arm. He didn't hit the dashboard hard enough to get a concussion, but the bump still hurts. And his left arm hurts. And he's hungry still.

"I thought you were going to _jump out of my moving car-_ that would probably hurt more than wrapping the car around a tree at twenty-five miles per hour! At least we'd have seatbelts on in the car." Michael rubs his eyes, taking a shaky breath.

"So you admit driving while high is dangerous?" Jeremy crosses his arms.

"The important thing is you're unharmed. Y- you didn't hit the dash too hard, did you?" Michael unbuckles himself and reaches over to Jeremy's head, brushing his hair out of the way to get a better look at the bruise. The car is too dim and Jeremy's hair is too dark for him to get a good look. He does notice, however, that the area does look a bit raised. Jeremy should probably ice that shit.

"I think we need to ice that shit," Jeremy remarks. "But I am _NOT_ letting you start up this car again for the rest of the night."

"Maybe we should start walking back, I don't think this is such a good idea anymore." Michael shifts back to his seat and removes the keys from ignition.

"That sounds like something a quitter would say." The taller teen carefully exits the car, closing the door behind him.

"Do you have any suggestions, then?" Michael follows, shoving the keys into his sweatshirt pocket.

Jeremy examines his surroundings. Even in the dark, the nearby houses seem familiar. He can't see any street signs nearby, but he's positive he's been in this neighborhood before. Maybe for a barbeque? To work on a science project, perhaps? The taller teen looks over to a stop sign a few yards down the road. The word "HATE" has been brazenly sprayed under the word "STOP" in black paint. Right, of course! Jeremy had been here for a party! To mark the beginning of their sophomore year, Rich Goranski had thrown a party, inviting everyone in their grade and anyone above. Some of the delinquents had brought spray paint to tag any brick walls within walking distance of the house, but a few of the art students stole a can for their own personal project on the stop sign. Of course, the main thing Jeremy remembered was drinking like it was the end of the world. Whiskey, scotch, vodka, he didn't discriminate. His liver- and his throat- were completely destroyed by the end of the night. Michael had to practically carry him home that night.

The point is if Jeremy is remembering correctly, Rich should live nearby. He might be able to provide the pair with some sort of transportation to the store. Or, if everything goes well, maybe Jeremy could convince him to stop being such a dick whenever they see each other in school. As things currently stand, Rich has a tendency to either physically or verbally abuse anyone with a lesser social status than he has, Jeremy included. Sometimes it's a mix of the two. Perhaps some sort of peace treaty between them could end the bullying or, somehow, bring Jeremy's popularity levels up. Rich is fairly popular, after all, so maybe some of it could rub off on him. Maybe it's all the weed, but the tall teen is feeling pretty confident in himself right now. He feels as if he could charm snakes barehanded, or walk on red-hot Legos with only a thin pair of ankle socks. Jeremy turns to Michael.

"Doesn't Rich live in this neighborhood?"

Michael mulls it over for a moment. "About a block away- but he would never do us a favor! He wouldn't want to be seen hanging around losers like us."

"We won't know until we ask. He might let us borrow his car for twenty minutes if we offer him a boon."

"A what? How hard did you hit your head, Jer? I'm starting to worry about you."

"A boon- just- a _favor._ Give him some weed, or something."

"But I only have my best stuff with me." He pauses for a few moments. "And a few brownies. But- but those are top quality Betty Crocker level shit!"

"You were going to bring illegal drugs to the store with you?" Sure, the brownies are pretty delicious, and possessing weed is pretty illegal, but there are more important matters at hand here! Jeremy's stomach is rumbling like an earthquake in Western California, and the only way to satiate his hunger involves bribing a jock with only the dankest of kush. Kushes? Kushi?

"Don't get all mad at me, you asked! It's not that big of a deal, I just forgot to empty out my pockets."

Jeremy remains unimpressed. "So are we asking him or not? There's no other way we can get our snacks, unless you prefer eating your whole-wheat-grain, 100% biodegradable, no artificial co-"

"Cool it, Hamlet. We'll ask, okay? You do the talking, though. Rich has always had something against me since third grade." He locks his car and begins walking in the direction of Rich's house.

"Third grade? What happened then? That's kind of a long time to hold a grudge." Jeremy trails behind, nearly tripping over his own feet. He regains his balance, then sets off towards Rich's house, a skip in his step.

"Well, I was on the swings at recess and-"

"That was _you?"_

"You know what? I don't want to talk about it."

"But how did he end up covered in blueberry pie?"

"Jeremy-"

"And the hamster, where did that come from?"

" _Jeremy-"_

"The teachers took everyone inside before we got to see anything! Didn't stop us from hearing the screaming, though." The taller teen doubles over with laughter. "He wouldn't even _look_ at you for _weeks,_ right?Wa- was that why? _"_

" _JEREMY!"_ Michael places a firm hand on his friend's shoulder. "Just drop it, okay? We have a mission to accomplish." The shorter teen rubs the back of his neck. "Nobody can prove I did it, anyways. My legal records are completely clean."

"And it was cherry pie, for your information." He pauses. "Don't bring any of it up to Rich, okay? Promise me this _one_ thing."

"On my honor. Boy scout's- um, code. Boy scout's honor." Jeremy puts three fingers over his heart.

"You weren't even a boy scout, dude."

The two soon reach the bottom of the driveway leading to Rich's clean-cut house. Even in the darkness, the yard consistently looks to be a vibrant shade of green, with every blade of grass cut to a uniform length; not too short as to look like a golf fairway, but just tall enough to tickle the bottoms of one's feet if they were to walk across it barefoot. Shrubs cut into rectangular prisms line the long driveway leading up to the house. In the space between the plants, tall light posts illuminate the surrounding grass and gravel. The house itself is grand and expansive. It's large enough to show off the Goranski family's wealth, yet not so much as to become a target for theft. The porch is well-lit and has wooden railing bordering it, as well as a porch swing to one side. Jeremy steps up to the door. The deep maroon entrance has a swanky metal knocker, but Jeremy decides to knock the old fashioned way; with his fists. He raps on the door three times with great force.

Silence.

"Maybe he's not here." Michael seems almost relieved. "We can just walk back to my house and put on a few episodes of Archer! Wouldn't that be great?"

"Wouldn't Hot Pockets be better? They're like, the anti-vegan superfood. Cheese, carbs, and pepperoni!" Jeremy knocks again.

This time, footsteps can be heard from behind the door.

"Look, if you're the guy from the Chinese place, you need to _stop_ coming by here. Nobody here is named I. C. Weiner, and your Kung Pao Chicken tastes like shit!" A tired looking teenager opens the door. He's wearing a black tank top with the words "SWOLE AS FUCK" emblazoned across the front. The expletive is censored by a silhouette of weights covering the letters 'U' and 'C'. His face, as well as the rest of his body, is gleaming with sweat, and a wet towel is draped over his shoulders. He runs a hand through his short, blonde hair, sizing the two up.

Michael instantly notices how much Rich has bulked up over the past year. All the better to beat the shit out of them, should they piss him off. And this is made worse by the fact that Rich is known for his short temper and violent outbursts, especially towards losers like Jeremy. Michael is cautious to stay away from anyone who can clearly pummel him in the hallways, and he can clearly recall a few separate occasions when Jeremy approached him after class with bruises on his arms, neck, or face.

Jeremy, on the other hand, is mostly thinking about Poptarts.

"Jeremy. _Michael."_ He stares down at the pair. Or, rather, up at Jeremy and about eye-level with Michael. But his confidence and skills in intimidation could make a giraffe feel as tall as a mouse. However, a giraffe high on marijuana, to put it bluntly, would not give a shit. Michael, on the other hand, looks a bit more upset.

"Hey, Rich! You- are your pants firmly on, today? Not feeling loose at all?" Jeremy chuckles, failing at his attempts to stifle his laughter. All thoughts of forming a peace treaty have been thrown out the window. "No _hamsters_ nearby?"

"You had _one job,_ Jeremy! _Scout's honor!"_ Michael covers Jeremy's mouth with his hand. "I- I- Rich, I'm so sorry about him, he's never tried-"

Jeremy pries Michael's hand off of him. "Hey, I could've been talking about anything! Everyone wears pants! Sometimes, Rich just wears less pants than other people out in public! That isn't my fault!"

Rich looks genuinely surprised for a moment, then rage clouds his face. "Fuck you." Without so much as giving Michael a sideways glace, he slams the door closed. Jeremy knocks again, five times, with a good amount of strength. The two hear a quiet mumbling from the other side of the door, as if Rich is talking to someone nearby. Most of it is incoherent, but it's apparent that Rich is growing more irritated by the second. After a few more moments, Rich grows quiet. He opens the door, looking sullen.

"What do you want? Make it quick."

"Weeeeellllll, my good friend, my old buddy, my favorite Richard-"

"Don't call me that."

"Right, right. Um, my acquaintance and I were wondering, if, uh, if we might perhaps get a ride to the grocery store."

"Fuck you." Rich is prepared to slam the door again, but his arm stiffens and refuses to cooperate. He twitches, his brow furrowed in frustration. But the door simply will not close. Rich tries to use his other hand to close the door, but before he can even grab the doorknob, his hand balls into a fist and tenses up. Rich's face flushes to a deep shade of red.

"So… is that a yes?"

"No." He twitches again. "Yes. Fine. But- but you have to get me something. You have your wallets, right?"

"Yep! Got it right- right- um, here!" Jeremy pats all of his pockets, finally finding his wallet on the fifth try.

"And fake IDs? I need to pick up some booze, but every store in a fifteen mile radius already knows that I'm under 21." Rich crosses his arms.

"Um, well, you see, I-" Jeremy trails off. He's only been able to drink by either mooching off his friends or stealing from his dad's liquor cabinet. He never had the guts to go through with buying a fake ID and purchasing alcohol for himself.

"I'll handle it. What're you looking for?" Michael takes out his wallet and passes a fake ID to Rich. Jeremy is flabbergasted.

"Michael?! How long have you had that? You know that's _really illegal-_ that's worse than just getting stoned in your-"

"Don't be such a bonerkill, tall-ass. If you want me to drive you, you have to fulfill your end of the bargain. I need two twelve-packs of beer and three bottles of wine _minimum._ And don't get something with shit quality, either." The blonde inspects the ID for a few seconds. It looks legit enough to pass, at least at a quick glance. Luckily, the cashiers at lower-quality liquor or grocery stores care more about getting cash and clocking out than making sure every customer is of legal age. Rich just got unlucky one too many times in the past. Hopefully Michael's ID wouldn't raise any alarms. He seems sober enough to talk to a cashier without getting caught, anyways. He hands the ID back to Michael.

"I just don't want the police involved." Jeremy, slightly nervous, takes a step back. His face is slowly reaching a bright shade of red. There goes his confidence.

Rich takes a step forwards, intimidatingly. Jeremy has shrunk back to the point where he can literally loom over the two losers. "That's your problem, not mine. Figure it out." He pounds a first on his front door, for good measure. Jeremy jumps, startled. "And if _either_ one of you try something funny, I'll _**fuck**_ **your** _ **asses**_ _."_

Jeremy and Michael exchange a look of pure fear, along with a twinge of confusion. They aren't exactly sure what to say. Neither of them is sure that there _is_ anything to say. Nothing either of them can think of could adequately follow up that threat in any way. All of a sudden, Rich's entire body seizes up as if he's being shocked by an electrical current.

"Wait- wait! Shit, I meant-" Rich clears his throat. "I was trying to say 'kick your asses' and- and 'fuck you up' at the same time. It just blended together- the _point_ I'm trying to make is: if you cross me, I will end you. Both of you. Got it?"

"Got it. Nothing funny here! Nope, nooooo funny business." Jeremy shudders, laughing nervously to himself.

"And you, headphones?" He points an accusing finger at Michael.

"Me? Oh, I'll be fine. Don't worry about it."

Rich raises an eyebrow, but decides not to push it any further. He'd prefer to get tonight over with as quickly as possible.

"I'll just head upstairs quickly to shower and change. Get in my Volvo, and don't even _think_ about riding shotgun." The blonde turns around, closing the door behind him. He grabs his car keys from the wine table near the door, unlocks his car, and begins to make his way upstairs to his bathroom. He can hear snoring as he passes the living room. Great, his dad passed out already. Sneaking out would be simple, then. Rich steals a quick glance out the window. Michael looks to be attempting to usher Jeremy towards the Volvo, but Jeremy is distracted with the fireflies rambling around the yard. He keeps reaching out and trying to catch them, despite many of them being upwards of ten feet above his head. It's pathetic, and Rich can't believe he has to spend his night babysitting the two losers.

But whatever his SQUIP tells him to do becomes law. Tonight _must_ have a greater purpose if he was told to listen to the pair instead of brushing them off or calling Jenna Rolan to laugh at them. It all has to mean _something._

With a sigh, Rich removes his shirt. "I can't believe I stopped my workout for this shit."


	4. Chapter 4: On The Road Again

Summary: Rich offers to drive Michael and Jeremy to the store on two conditions.

1\. They buy him a good amount of booze, and

2\. They exit the store by 12:29 AM

With two stoned teenagers, what could possibly go wrong?

* * *

After fifteen minutes, a freshly showered Rich makes his way downstairs. Wearing a simple yellow striped shirt, cargo shorts, and his ever-classy black Yeezy's, he steps outside, being sure to lock the front door behind him. In his driveway, Jeremy and Michael are having a rather loud conversation. If they're lucky, the neighbors won't care enough to file a noise complaint.

"I'm telling you dude, snakes are just really long heads. Like, big ol' slippery faces." The taller teen is making wild hand gestures, but trying to figure out the meaning is like playing charades with an armless mime.

"Nah, nah. They're just tails with faces. They taper off at one end, right? A head wouldn't do that." Michael tries his hand at gesturing, but he's just as successful.

"What do you think a neck is?"

"That doesn't count! Only humans have necks like that. Most animals have super fat necks."

" _Giraffes!"_

"They're different! They shouldn't even be alive! They're like those fish at the bottom of the ocean; the monsters that shouldn't be seen by human eyes." Michael is getting pretty heated, but it's all in good fun.

"I happen to like giraffes. They have really nice spots." Jeremy retorts.

"So do Dalmatians, but they aren't demons! Why not fawn over those instead?"

"What giraffe hurt you to make you like this? I mean- I could probably fight it for you."

"Y- you'd really do that for me?"

"I'd do anything for you, man. You're my best friend. Even if the giraffe had an AK-47, I'd still wring its skinny, freakish neck." Jeremy puts one hand on Michael's shoulder.

Rich decides to step in before the two go on a wild-giraffe chase.

"We should get going." With a huff, he drags himself to the driver's side of the car and opens the door. A voice in the back of his mind eggs him on, demanding that he broaden his shoulders, speak with a deeper voice, be sure to get to the store before 12:29 AM. Sure, his SQUIP can force him to drive the two losers to some run-down grocery store in the middle of the night, but he can't force him to be happy about it.

 _Activating maximum serotonin production. You may feel sudden warmth, nausea, or an increase in alertness._

Well, that was short-lived. Rich takes a deep breath, relaxing his shoulders. Maybe tonight won't be so terrible; he is getting free booze, after all. He sticks the keys in ignition.

Jeremy, meanwhile, is feeling as if his entire body is floating. That one Winnie the Pooh song about being a raincloud feels like his _life's anthem._

He slowly opens the left side car door, and awkwardly flops inside, lamenting the lack of leg room. He tries to sit comfortably in the plush backseat of the Volvo, but he feels as if he's riding down the first hill of one of those rickety wooden rollercoasters. But, you know, in a nice way, almost. Jeremy's mind feels too spacey to care too much about the fact that he's riding in a car with someone who's been bullying him relentlessly over the past few months. Shit, maybe if Rich smoked a blunt, he would simmer down. Maybe if everyone on Earth just took one hit each, all wars would stop. That'd make a great presidential campaign, now that he thinks about it. A blunt for every man, woman, and child. Infants included, too. No discrimination. Maybe even pets. A perfect world. Make the world good again. With weed.

He's standing at a podium, overlooking crowds of millions of screaming Americans cheering his name as thousands of rolled up pieces of paper rain from a ceiling so high it can't be seen with the naked eye. A bright-eyed secretary bounds up to him, her shoulder-length black hair bouncing as she walks towards him.

"The crime rate has dropped by 90% since you implemented Proposition 421!"

"Of course, Christine." Jeremy replies, lowering his bulletproof shades. "I always go one step ahead."

The secretary giggles like a schoolgirl and clings to his arm before planting a kiss firmly on his lips.

"How did I wind up so lucky?" She gazes deep into his eyes. The crowds are absolutely losing their shit.

Jeremy gets down on one knee and pulls out a bong, bedazzled with the purest Swarovski crystals in shades of rose gold, fuchsia, and her favorite, padparadscha. Christine gasps, clasping both hands over her mouth in joy.

"Will you do me the honor of being my First Lady?" He's sweating, but that might just be because of all of the smoke and heat in the room.

"Of course!" She jumps into his arms, and the two metaphorically sprout wings and soar into the sunset. After that, they begin their life together.

After the termination of his presidency, they live a simple, humble life farming Mary Jane on the outskirts of New Jersey. They have three children together; Charles, Nancy, and Clementine. The three have a wonderful childhood, and Jeremy greatly enjoys the simple pleasures of fatherhood. Christine is a truly caring mother, but knows to have just the right amount of strictness towards the children to strengthen their character. The family members often spend their time exploring the forest around their house, or swimming in the lake a few miles away. The summer days are lazy and the nights are cozy. Years pass like seconds, and it isn't long before his kids are having kids of their own. Jeremy is well-liked as a grandfather, since he always has stories to tell and blunts to share with the youngins. These truly are his golden years. With his wife turning grey beside him, Jeremy realizes that there isn't really anything he would want to change about his life, even if he could. He doesn't have a single regret; every mistake or slip-up he made in his younger years allowed him to learn and grow as a person. With a smile, he sits back in his rocking-chair, enjoying the bright hues of the sunset in front of him.

A single gunshot is all it takes and his life is ruthlessly taken from him. Christine and the grandchildren cry out in pure horror as Jeremy's body falls, lifeless, to the ground. Christine lets out an earth-shattering wail of despair as she kneels beside him, clutching his rapidly cooling torso in her desperate fingers. About one hundred meters away, a man in camouflage lowers his sniper rifle. He runs a hand through his short blonde hair. It's Richard Fucking Goranski, an elite spy for the Russian government. He smiles and speaks into a hidden walkie-talkie in his thick fur scarf.

"The eagle has landed." With a grin, he slinks back into the darkness, leaving Christine, as well as the rest of his family, to grieve over the loss of their loved one.

Fingers are snapping in front of Jeremy's face.

"Hello? Anyone home?" It's Michael, looking a bit concerned. "You looked so out of it, man. More than I've ever seen you. That was some serious 'sleep through an earthquake' kind of shit. What're you thinking about?"

"Wha-? Wher- wh- I- I dunno." He stumbles over his words, glancing towards Rich. "Just- um, sports." Somehow, Jeremy is wearing a seatbelt, and he's sitting next to Michael in the back seat of Rich's car. The car is going at a steady pace down some near-empty highway. Jeremy can't help but feel that his entire daydream was pointlessly stupid. He's secretly happy that mind-reading technology hasn't been invented yet.

"Look, we're nearly there, all right? Try not to daydream while we're in the store."

"We aren't there already? That felt, like, about 47 years." Jeremy rubs his eyes and stretches his arms out. It's a bit difficult in the cramped car, but he manages. Well, nearly. He accidentally punches Michael in the face, but not hard enough to do any damage. Michael looks taken aback for a second, and he carefully moves Jeremy's hand out of his personal space. Jeremy immediately tries to stretch it again. Michael allows it, but guides the hand away from his face.

"Are you sure you were only thinking about sports? Not one of those weird Lifetime movies they show on airplanes?" Michael readjusts his glasses, which got skewed from the punch.

"Er- yup! Positive!" Michael knows better than to trust Jeremy's word. He shoots Jeremy a knowing grin, but steers the conversation in another direction. Rich definitely didn't need any more bullying material from Jeremy, and talking about some strange weed-induced fantasy would do anything but help.

"So, what's our plan of attack here? Rich can't be seen walking in with us if we're going to buy alcohol. It'd be too obvious."

"You two go in first. I'll follow a few minutes later. I have some business to take care of, anyways. If you finish up early, just head back to the car. I'll leave it unlocked." Rich pauses. "I might be a while."

"Oooh- Are you on some sort of secret spy mission? Espionage? Something Bond-ish, maybe? Perhaps involving the Russian government?" Jeremy stares at the driver, his eyes wide with curiosity.

"Are you looking for a knuckle sandwich?" Rich seems a bit confused by that last quip, but not confused enough to cease his intimidation.

"Are we seriously using threats from 2007?" Jeremy tries to stand up, but his seatbelt holds him back.

Rich swerves the car across the highway, crossing the two solid yellow lines into the left lane. Michael instinctively throws an arm out in front of Jeremy to keep him from falling forwards, but that doesn't help in the slightest, since the momentum is carrying him leftward. Jeremy practically falls onto Michael before his seatbelt locks into place.

"Remember your place." Rich almost looks to be gloating.

" _Jesus Christ-!_ Rich, isn't that going a bit far? At least _my_ driving was straight, and I've taken _multiple_ hits." Michael's face is slowly draining of all color. Jeremy is about to ask if he's okay, when all of a sudden-

Rich swerves again, this time rolling the outer tires onto the grass by the highway. Michael squeals in terror, one hand on the door frame and the other clutching Jeremy's left shoulder. Jeremy, not wanting to feel left out, squeals as well.

"Any more questions?" Rich is staring straight ahead, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel.

The two remain silent.

" _Well?"_ He moves his hands to 7 and 1 on the wheel, as if preparing to turn it again.

"No- we're fine!"

"Perfectly fine!"

"No questions here!"

"None at all!"

"What the hell is a question? Never heard of it!"

Rich moves his hands back to the 9-3 position. "Good. Keep it that way." He returns to the right lane. Luckily for all parties involved, no other cars are in sight. Rich looks extremely pleased with himself. Getting the two to comply with his every demand is so _easy,_ it's almost not worth the trouble of trying. He could probably do it SQUIPless and be just as successful. He steals a quick look at the two in his rearview mirror.

Jeremy tries to give Michael a nice little pat on the head, but the sudden swerving forces his hand to awkwardly bop Michael on the face. Jeremy goes in for another pat, just as Rich makes a hard right into the grocery store's parking lot. This time, Jeremy's hand collides with the window.

Rich pulls into the parking spot nearest to the grocery store, aside from the handicapped spots. Sure, those are open and easy to take, but he doesn't need a some-odd hundred dollar fine for one hour of parking. Instead, he takes a spot nearby. Well, two spots, technically. The front end of the car takes up a few feet in the spot next to it. He was never great at parking, especially on the right side. Rich unbuckles his seatbelt and turns around to talk to the two teens.

"You both should head in first. Remember our plan. Don't mess around. Get the booze. Oh, and, uh, be out of the store by 12:29. Don't forget that."

"What happens at 12:29? That only gives us a half-hour to get everything!" Jeremy says, exasperated. He needs time to find the perfect snacks, dammit!

"Well, if you want me to drive you home, which I'm assuming you do, it'd be in your best interests to listen to me without asking so many questions." Well, that puts a damper on things for Jeremy.

"Ya got me there. Looks like we'll have to make this fast, Michael. You have any idea what you want?" Jeremy turns to his best friend.

"Maybe some barbeque flavored potato chips. Trail mix too?" Michael could probably eat two family-size bags of chips if he set his mind to it.

"I _have_ to have some hot pockets. Or pizza rolls." Jeremy could probably eat an entire cake, without hesitation.

"We could always get a frozen pizza."

"Fuck. Yes. What toppings, though?"

Michael barely speaks above a whisper. "Pineapple?"

"You're dead to me. I can't believe you've done this." Jeremy says, faking contempt.

"Jer-"

"I'm just kidding, we can get a Hawaiian pizza. Just take the pineapple off my side. We can get some pepp-"

"Could you two hurry it up already? You have less than thirty minutes." Rich stares at the clock on the car's dashboard. Another minute ticks by.

"Right!" Jeremy and Michael unbuckle their seatbelts and hop out of the car.

The neon sign advertising the grocery store is lit up like a beacon in front of them. Their journey to the Promised Land is finally over. Jeremy can hardly contain his excitement. The two walk across the parking lot to the automatically opening doors to the store. Inside, the intense fluorescent lights stun the two for a second, a harsh contrast to the darkness outside. Once their eyes adjust, the two are able to see aisles upon aisles of mass-produced garbage and locally grown vegetables. A wonderland of chemicals, plastics, and overpriced produce. A dreamland for stoners, and a nightmare for the underpaid cashiers and stockboys.

"It's beautiful." Jeremy has stars in his eyes.

"Isn't it? Damn, it's like Disneyworld in there." Michael shares his sentiments.

The two teens give each other a look of pure enthusiasm before stepping into the store. Before they can even get past the front door security camera, they both simultaneously trip on the doorframe and fall flat on their faces.

A high-pitched chorus of laughter erupts from one of the aisles nearby. Jeremy can see a gaggle of high heels, flip-flops, and ankle-strap sandals enter his field of vision.

"Ow- damn it!" Jeremy rubs his nose, which got slammed on the floor in the fall.

"Oh my _God!_ Are they seriously drunk out in public?" The voice sounds familiar. Like one of the girls always gossiping in the hallways between periods at school.

"No, Jenna, they're probably _high._ Headphones always smokes in the bathroom during second period. Super disgusting." Another familiar voice. This is bad.

"This shit is going on my Snapstory. I only wish it could last longer than twenty-four hours." She sighs for dramatic effect.

"You _have_ to send it to me!" One of them says.

"Me too!" Says another.

Jeremy stumbles to his feet, offering a hand to help Michael up. He takes it, and the two stare at the three teenage girls gathered excitedly around an iPhone, probably posting about the whole falling ordeal on various social media websites.

The three turn to look at them. It's clear why the voices were so familiar to Jeremy. He can clearly make out the faces of Brooke Lohst, Chloe Valentine, and Jenna Rolan as they giggle and whisper among themselves.

Shit.


	5. Chapter 5: Boozin' and Losin'

Summary: Jeremy and Michael just want to make like a tree and get out of the grocery store, but Chloe, Brooke, and Jenna have other ideas.

* * *

"Oh my God, they're even bigger losers _outside_ of school." Chloe Valentine quips, failing to contain her snickering.

Jeremy's face flushes a deep shade of red as he drags Michael away to an empty aisle. Michael, on the other hand, looks to be a bit less concerned. He's already looking through the aisle for any snacks they could bring back to his basement. Unfortunately, they're in the feminine sanitary products aisle. Jeremy never would've guessed there could be so many different types of tampon. Active wear, heavy flow, light days; it's all Greek to him. But he has more important things to worry about at the moment. Like the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, for instance. That's more important than the diversity among plastic-wrapped swabs of cotton. The two walk another aisle over. This one is full of various types of soap and dental products.

"Just ignore them, Jeremy. We only have twenty-something minutes left, so we better get a move on." Michael tries to lead Jeremy to the next aisle, but Jeremy is firmly planted in his spot.

"It's easy for you to say. You don't have to worry about someone like Christine seeing those pictures. She already probably thinks I'm a loser without my name being slandered on social media." The taller teen sighs and crosses his arms.

"I mean, technically, it isn't slander if it actually happened." Michael shrugs, examining some Spider-man themed toothpaste on the shelf next to him.

"That isn't the point! My reputation at school is so low it practically doesn't exist. If the only reason people know me are over our high escapades at the store- if they only see me as some klutzy stoner-"

"Like how they see me?" The shorter teen puts the toothpaste back on the shelf and shoots Jeremy a look, as if challenging him.

"You pull it off well, though. I wouldn't be able to. Christine would think I was a low-tier stoner. Like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo. Nobody wants to get with Shaggy." Jeremy stares down at his feet.

Michael pauses for a moment, trying to think of something to say. "So… are you craving Fanta or Mountain Dew?"

"Don't try to change the subject, Michael." Jeremy opens his mouth to speak again when Michael interrupts him.

"Because we need to hit up the soda aisle to satisfy your intense thirst." He wheezes with laughter.

"Wh- now isn't the time for jokes!" The footsteps are only an aisle over, now.

"You have no idea how funny it is to watch you try to argue while high." Michael snickers, covering his mouth with one hand. Jeremy shoots him a cold glare.

"Come on, Jerry!" Brooke's voice rings out. "If you come out, I'll make out with you."

"You're such a slut, Brooke." Chloe sounds as if she's said this a thousand times before.

"I won't actually! It's just to, like, lure him out." Her voice trails off, embarrassed.

"Oh my god, how many likes do you think this'll get on Instagram? And should I use Valencia or Mayfair?" Jenna's voice cuts in.

"Mayfair really complements the red in their faces as they're lying on the ground. More cinematic looking." Brooke sounds happy to change the subject.

"If it gets anything less than 200 likes, I'm unfollowing you." Chloe almost sounds bored with Jenna.

"I'll get that within the hour, no problem." She sounds completely confident in herself, which is honestly deserved. Her follower count _has_ been climbing since she posted those shirtless pictures of Jake Dillinger after football practice. And since she leaked the photos of cheerleader Rachel Barns making out with resident school trenchcoat-wearer, Ernest Wright. Highschoolers just eat those stories up, no questions asked. Anything with enough color editing and eye-catching emojis in the caption is certain to be a hit.

Michael lowers his voice to a whisper. "We can't hide from them forever, bro. The store isn't that big." As much as he hates to see his friend distressed over his social standing, he has to face the music eventually. This isn't a Costco or one of those super Walmarts, however, they can't waste the night crouching in pallets of bulk seltzer water or racks upon racks of discount clothing.

"I know, I just- I don't want to embarrass myself any more than I already have. Also, I'm having some serious pizza roll cravings right now, and I swear I'm about to go Hulk if I don't get any in my system in the next ten minutes." Jeremy sighs and rubs the back of his neck. Yet, still, he has a wild look in his eyes; one that can only be seen in starving children in third world countries or in teenage stoners who haven't eaten in three hours.

"Even if you do embarrass yourself, I'll be right here beside you. Those girls out there- they only have power over you if you let them. And, uh, I'm pretty sure it'll take us longer than ten minutes to buy the food and get back to my house. And the boo- other stuff. We can't forget that." It feels almost sinful for the two to discuss alcohol in public, despite the fact that they're going to end up buying some within the half-hour.

"I'll eat em right here, dude. Pizza rolls. In my belly. Right here." The taller teen has a glint of determination in his eyes.

"That's not a good idea."

"It's happening."

"You can't go around eating whatever pizza you want- we haven't even found the stuff for Rich!" Michael tries to bring Jeremy towards the boozy back-aisles of the store, but Jeremy remains planted firmly in place.

"But they're all so good. The pizzas, man. They're so- …so pure. The way the sauce and the cheese mixes. The sweetness of the tomato and the savory flavor of the cheese. All wrapped together by the glorious fingers of angels in a pocket of warmth, heated to perfection. Don't even get me started on the toppings."

"Jeremy-" Michael is about to interrupt, but he decides to let this happen. It's just getting interesting. They have twenty minutes left, anyways.

"The way the pepperoni complements the cheese. Peppers, sausages, hell, even pineapple wouldn't be that bad. They add a whole nother layer to the pizza enigma. They make it customizable, so anyone and everyone can enjoy it differently, even though it's fundamentally the same food. All the different experiences and tastes of all cultures can be brought together under one roof. The roof of a Pizza Hut. And you can put anything on a pizza. You can make a pizza out of almost anything! Use ice cream and candy? That shit's a dessert pizza. Use only vegetables? Salad pizza. It's all… beautiful. It's like art, the way all the flavors mix together. It's perfect. Pizza; it's round. Like the world. Pizza is like my world, man. It runs through my veins like grease off a Chicago-style deep dish." Jeremy speaks about the food like a mother whose firstborn child just graduated from medical school. The munchies must really be getting to him.

Over Jeremy's shoulder, Michael can see the upper half of an iPhone, as well as a well-manicured hand, peeking out from behind a display stand.

"God _damn_ it! Get a life, won't you?" This is getting tiring. Michael takes a forceful step towards the hand, then stops, unsure whether he should confront the girls or stand down as he usually does. Going after the girls would just egg them of further, but staying neutral when people are fucking with his best friend is so _difficult._ A flurry of giggling erupts from the other side of the display stand. It seems that even without getting violent he's already lost. By this time tomorrow, half the school will have seen the videos online. At least, with the rapid consumption rate of everything on social media, it'll all be forgotten before the week ends.

But, for now, life sucks. Everything just sucks.

Michael turns away from the camera. Jeremy is still oblivious to everything going on.

"We should just move on before-"

"Oh my _God,_ guys, the freak nearly went berserk on me, I _swear._ Like, I could've died. I could be dead right now, guys." The phone, along with its hand, is gone from sight. Are the girls seriously livestreaming this?

"Also follow my insta valentinequeen! Thaaaaaanks!" They _must_ be. Chloe's voice is far too high pitched to just be talking normally to friends. She's putting on one of those fake voices one would use while talking to a crush on the phone.

"Comment what we should do, and like, I'll totally do it." She pauses for a few seconds. "Slap them? Which one, though? Both?"

"We're leaving, Jeremy." The shorter teen can feel the anger rising in him. He grits his teeth and drags Jeremy behind him towards the frozen food aisles of the grocery store. It would be too suspicious to try and get the booze now, since the girls could squeal on them. Hopefully they'll get bored and leave within the next… seventeen minutes.

"Where are we going now? We still have to get the boo- um- the- you know." Jeremy seems a bit disoriented. Maybe the brownies are finally starting to kick in. Hopefully he won't end up on the floor. Michael can vividly remember the times he had eaten one too many edibles and wound up face-down on the carpet in his basement, practically dead to the world. He would sleep for hours, unable to move until at least noon of the following day. It's a lot less fun than it sounds.

"I'm working on it." Michael passes a few aisles of TV dinners and countless containers of ice cream before reaching the treasure trove of frozen pizzas. In front of the two, a sea of premade pizzas sit, each one placed carefully in one of many rows behind thick glass doors. Like an army of soldiers preparing for battle against the leagues of hungry teenagers who frequent the grocery store.

Jeremy is absolutely mystified. He steps back, taking it all in.

"Can we get them all?" To say he looks like a kid in a candy store would be an understatement.

"You can get whatever you want, as long as you pay." Michael is trying to mentally run through everything he needs to buy, but he's having trouble focusing.

Jeremy digs through his pockets, soon finding his wallet. "I have exactly five dollars."

"You can maybe get some Totino's pizza rolls."

"Michaelllllllll…"

"Fine, I can get us some DiGiorno. We'll put the toppings on back at my place." He grabs a garlic bread pepperoni pizza from one of the nearby refrigerated shelves, and he hands it to Jeremy. Maybe they should've brought a shopping basket. Jeremy looks ready to dig into the pizza already.

"So do you want to get some chips next? They're nearby, I think."

"Hell yeah, dude! That'd be gr-"

"Oooooh Pizza Boy!"

"Ugh." Here comes trouble.

Chloe swaggers down the row, holding her iphone out in front of her. "He _actually_ got a pizza, holy shit." She whispers to her friends, then addresses Jeremy directly. "Strike a pose!"

Jeremy stares at the phone for a second, then down at his pizza. It takes a few moments for him to process the situation, but every instinct in his body is telling him that _nothing_ good can come from this. However, his feet refuse to cooperate, and he stands still.

"Come on, Jerry, don't be a pussy. Do something interesting!"

"U- uh, well, I know one thing- one interesting- um, something… I can do…" He looks around for inspiration. It's clear, even to his clouded mind, that the girls won't go away without some sort of intervention. Ignoring people who pick on him has never worked in the past, and today won't be an exception. His mind races, searching for _any_ action he could take to get the girls to leave him alone without committing a serious crime.

"You okay there?" Brooke raises an eyebrow, quizzically.

"Yeah! Yep, I just need, um, a jar of tomato sauce first! And- uh, one of those packets of shredded cheese. That's it!"

The three girls murmur among themselves for a few moments, but ultimately decide that Jenna will retrieve the sauce and cheese for Jeremy. She leaves to fetch some and returns about a minute later, holding a factory-fresh glass jar of Prego tomato sauce and a package of a 5 Italian blend of shredded cheese.

"Now, Jenna needs to come over here with the sauce. Chloe needs to take the cheese."

"What is this supposed to accomplish?"

"You'll find out in a second. Just take the cheese."

Chloe takes the bag of cheese, a confused look on her face. She hands her iPhone to Brooke, who's periodically switching the view between Chloe and Jeremy. Jenna walks over to Jeremy, just as puzzled as her friends.

"Now, Chloe, I need you to open the bag."

"That's probably illegal, but like, I don't really give a shit." The four turn to Chloe, who makes a big show of tearing open the plastic tab on top of the bag. Brooke moves the phone camera as close to the action as possible.

Just before Chloe can rip off the plastic, Jeremy smacks the jar of tomato sauce out of Jenna's hands and onto the floor. The jar shatters upon impact, glass and sauce scattering and splattering across the linoleum. Everyone's shoes are splashed with traces of red, except for Jenna and Jeremy, who look like they've just walked through the hallway from The Shining.

"Jenna, I can't believe you did that! What were you thinking?" Jeremy quickly steps away from the sauce, making a beeline for Michael. Michael's face looks as if he's just witnessed a murder.

"Jenna, you klutz, what did you do this time?" Chloe is _pissed._

"I- I didn't! I swear!" Jenna timidly shuffles away from the shattered jar, but slips on the sauce and falls flat on her backside. Brooke bursts into laughter and aims the phone camera in her direction. Chloe follows suit. Mission accomplished. Jeremy grabs Michael by the arm and shoves him out of the aisle. Luckily for the two, a young stockboy is making his rounds nearby. Jeremy approaches him, Michael at his side.

Trying his best to sound sober, Jeremy speaks loud and clear. "This girl just smashed a can of spaghetti sauce on the floor back there, by the frozen pizzas. Probably part of some YouTube stunt. Completely insane. She might try to deny it, or something, but I _saw_ her."

The stockboy looks completely dead inside. His face then morphs to annoyance. Which turns to anger. He stomps over to the refrigerated foods aisle. Jeremy and Michael can hear gruff arguing from that direction. After a few more moments, the stockboy appears again, talking into a walkie-talkie and asking for a manager or security personel.

"What the _hell_ have you done, Jeremy?" Michael still has the murder-witness look on his face.

"They were rude to me- to us. Something had to be done." Jeremy is surprisingly nonchalant about the entire thing.

"They might be banned from here for life!" The shorter teen furrows his brow.

"They shouldn't have fucked with me." He crosses his arms.

"You can't just go around framing people for things they haven't done!" Michael frowns. Jeremy hopes he isn't seriously upset by this. The girls _did_ deserve it after publicly shaming them. So what if they got thrown out of a popular grocery store chain, possibly for life?

"I dunno, it was pretty simple. I could probably do it again."

"Jeremy!" Michael looks as if he wants to literally shake some sense into his friend.

"Calm down, it was only a one-time thing. You have to admit, it does feel pretty nice knowing they'll leave us alone for a while." Jeremy turns and heads towards the potato chip aisle.

Michael pauses for a moment, then follows his friend. "Well… you're not wrong. But what if they check the security footage? Or that live instagram thing? We could be in serious trouble."

"Brooke was focused on the cheese, not Jenna. She didn't film any of it until after I hit the sauce. And if you think the shitty security cams they have here will be able to differentiate between my hand and Jenna's, you're selling something. " The two soon arrive at the massive expanse of processed potatoes.

Michael keeps his focus on Jeremy. "You're scaring me, dude. How much thought did you put into this?"

Should he get Doritos or Lays? It's impossible to decide. They have so many flavors now, too. Like Cheddar Bacon Mac & Cheese. Who would think to make that a potato chip flavor? But, to be quite honest, it does sound pretty delicious. He blinks, trying to focus on the conversation at hand, and turns to Michael. "All I did was smash some sauce on the floor."

"With bad intentions!" Michael steps between Jeremy and the shelves. Now is not the time to be distracted, no matter how delicious the snacks are. "If they find out you were behind this, they'll be after you like the Trix rabbit after shitty cereal."

The stockboy appears again, with two security guards escorting the three girls out of the store. Jenna, covered in sauce, is hiding her face in her hands. The other two girls are berating her relentlessly. Brooke still has her phone out and is livestreaming the entire thing. She stops to pose with the security guard, throwing up a peace sign. He sighs and prods her shoulder, urging her to hurry up.

Jeremy puts one hand on Michael's shoulder. Michael shudders, whether with disgust or something else is unclear. "Dude." Jeremy sounds completely sincere. "I'll survive. I always have. Remember back in third grade when you spilled brown paint on your pants, and Scott Smithson started a brigade against you? Half the grade was laughing at you by the end of the week."

"You don't have to remind me." Michael breaks eye contact.

"And then I dumped brown paint on my pants, and shirt, and _head_ just to take some of the attention away from you?" The taller teen stands firm.

"Well, yeah…" He looks back to Jeremy.

"Look where we are now. Together, standing here, stoned, well-off in some supermarket in the middle of the night. Living the American Dream." Jeremy has a wistful look in his eyes. As if he's been through some great struggle, yet somehow arrived at this very moment, the cultivation of his entire being.

"I'm confused." Michael, on the other hand, looks sort of tired. But not tired enough to want to go to sleep; the sort of tired you would find on the face of a student fresh out of midterm exams.

"The point is this; we aren't dead or complete social outcasts. We're all right. You know, like that song. Maybe you need to listen to more Marley." Jeremy makes a wavy motion with one hand. Neither of them can figure out what it's supposed to mean.

Moving on, Michael speaks up. "I can't believe you just told _me_ I need to listen to more Marley."

"He has good morals. We should probably get moving , though. We have how much time?" Jeremy checks his arm for a watch he doesn't own.

Michael, on the other hand, actually owns a watch. One of those novelty Pac-man ones, with tiny ghosts and fruits on the face. "Ten minutes. Apparently. Honestly, I don't think anything bad is going to happen. The store doesn't close for hours, and curfews aren't enforced around here."

"Maybe you're right. I still don't want to piss off Rich, though." Jeremy rubs the back of his neck.

"True." The two grab one bag of chips each, then head for the back of the store.

Cases of beer and bottles of various spirits line the shelves in the small back-corner of the supermarket, reaching from floor level to a few feet below the ceiling.

"So…" Jeremy mumbles. He knows absolutely nothing about alcohol other than the fact that it's great to drink on the weekends. "What do we get? There's so many to choose from."

"Get, like, the second cheapest one." Michael begins browsing through the wares. "We need, what, three packs and two bottles? Or was it the other way around?"

"Just get two of each. It's not that big of a deal." The taller teen makes another indecipherable hand motion.

Michael has learned to accept Jeremy's weirdness. "What happened to not pissing Rich off?"

"He should be happy he's getting anything at all. We'll only be one booze short, anyways."

" _One booze."_ The shorter teen has to cover up a snicker.

"Exactly." Jeremy slugs two cases of beer off of the nearest shelf. He instantly topples over, the weight of the cans dragging him down.

"Dude." Michael helps him back to his feet, taking one of the cases. "Maybe I should handle the bottles. We don't want a repeat of the whole tomato sauce incident."

Jeremy nods, walking over to the wine portion of the shelves. "Imagine if, like, one of us had massive cleavage, so we could hide bottles of wine in there."

"Is this what you think about at night?" Michael grabs two bottles of cheap wine from one of the bottom shelves. The labels have pictures of little moons on them, and it claims to have been aged "for seven years." Early 2000s wine. Sounds great. Hopefully the shitty synth-pop and boy bands won't mask the taste.

"We could sneak it anywhere! Nobody would even question it!" Jeremy sets his case of beer down and uses it as a makeshift chair.

"You're not thinking big enough. You could _weaponize_ that shit. Tape some spikes to 'em and you've got one hell of a hail Mary." Satisfied with his selection of bottom-of-the-barrel booze, Michael heads back over to his friend.

Michael hands Jeremy the second pack of beers and helps him to his feet, helping him regain his balance. The two march to the front of the store and get in line at an open register close to the exit of the store. A grumpy-looking woman with short grey hair works at their register.

"How ya doin'?" Neither of the boys answer, so she repeats herself after a few seconds, slightly louder this time. Her voice is dry and raspy.

"Um- great! Great night for- um- sho- shopping?" Jeremy tries his best to appear sober, but fails miserably. Michael decides to take the reins.

"Great. Love the hair, um…" Michael looks at her apron, searching for a nametag. "Laura! Super modern." The woman looks flattered for a moment, but her exhaustion soon takes over. She scans the boys' purchases with robot-like intensity, and barely glances at Michael's fake ID as he presents it to her. She certainly doesn't get paid enough for this shit. The boys look a bit young to be purchasing alcohol, but calling security would be too much of a hassle to deal with, and this job is only to pass the time until her husband's retirement benefits kick in. Let them have their fun. The one in the sweatshirt is polite, anyways. Far too many young people forget the importance of being kind to their neighbors. Not like when she was a child; then everybody in her small hometown knew each other's first names and family history. Nowadays, you'd be hard pressed to find someone to hold open the door for you as you make your way out of the hospital for your third mammogram of the ye-

One of the boys hands her a wad of cash. Could they be any more obvious? Who even carries around anything over thirty dollars anymore, unless dealing with something illegal? She counts the bills, quickly calculates how much change she should give them, and produces a few dollar bills for the shorter boy. He takes them and delicately places them in the tip jar before retrieving two of their three paper bags full of food and drinks. Jeremy takes the third. The two boys turn to leave, when Laura speaks up.

"Next time, use an out-of-state ID. Cashiers can't tell all the tiny details from real ones. With in-state ones, we see 'em all the time. Know 'em like the back a my hand."

Michael freezes in place, the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment. Jeremy finds the entire situation altogether too hilarious, and he doubles over in laughter. After seeing Jeremy so joyful, Michael can't help but crack a smile as well. Laura seems happy for a second, herself.

Their moment is only interrupted by the ringing of an alarm and the harsh drizzling of water as they see the back portion of the supermarket engulfed in flames.

The clock strikes 12:29.


	6. Chapter 6: That's So Richard

Summary: While Jeremy and Michael escape from the burning grocery store, Rich has his own mission to complete. I hope you're ready for this, brother.

* * *

Rich can feel the heat encapsulating every inch of his body. Every instinct in every fiber of his being is urging him to run away and never look back, but a deep, raspy voice booms louder than even his most fearful thoughts.

" _There's a fire extinguisher in the employee lounge, on your left. Don't be a pussy, boy."_

Rich blindly wades through the smoke and flame, his vision obscured by the pitch-blackness of the vapor. Isn't he supposed to be crawling along the ground, or something? They taught that in elementary school. Stay close to the ground, since hot air and smoke will rise. Also, stop, drop, and roll. Rich is about to lower himself to the ground when a voice snaps at him.

" _Stay on your toes, brother. We don't have enough time to mess around."_

A hulking, brutish figure looms nearby, just near enough for Rich to be able to see. He's surrounded by a blue aura, and he appears to be floating, somehow. Rich pays it no mind. He has more important things to worry about. He's used to it, anyways.

" _GET A MOVE ON!"_

Rich feels a stabbing pain run down his spine, as if he's being pricked with thousands of tiny needles. He twitches involuntarily, then hurries on his way to the employee lounge. He can vaguely hear the sounds of people screaming behind him, but he doesn't look back. Rich hasn't really been to this particular supermarket to know the floorplan very well, but it shouldn't be too difficult to maneuver his wa-

 _Thwack._

He runs headfirst into a wall. The impact causes him enough pain to bring him to his knees. He grunts in pain and rubs the bump on his forehead, wishing that he were literally _anywhere_ else right now. He heat is seriously bothering him, and he can't breathe well due to all of the smoke. It's like being at an alternative music festival, but without all the ecstasy.

The floating being appears in front of Rich. His thick eyebrows are furrowed in anger, which can easily be seen on his face despite the sleek yellow sunglasses covering his eyes. The bandana covering the top of his head is in pristine condition, along with his red muscle shirt, with "HULKMANIA" written across the front in a bold yellow font, and his tight yellow shorts. He strokes his horseshoe mustache for a moment, then lowers himself to Rich's eye-level. His feet sink into the floor, and he stops when his calves are about halfway through the floor. Rich isn't exactly known for his height. Rich stares at the being, his mind racing.

" _Do I have to do everything for you? What are you, some sort of baby? How can you expect to be wildly popular if you can't walk through an open door?"_

Geez, the SQUIP sounds just like his dad. And the yelling is really grating after a while, especially while he's actively trying to escape from a raging fire. Maybe choosing Hulk Hogan as his SQUIP wasn't such a good idea. Every time he speaks, Rich feels like he's about to be body slammed in a WWE ring.

"I can handle it. Where am I supposed to go?" Rich thinks at the SQUIP.

" _Just a few feet to your right, brother. Be careful; all the cardboard boxes and excess processed food items will light up like a Christmas tree if the f- fire spreads to 'em."_

Rich puts a hand out, feeling for the wall. He brings himself back to his feet and keeps his hand on the wall, using it to guide him as he feels around for the door. He soon feels a protrusion from the wall; that must be the doorframe. As the SQUIP mentioned, the door is open, and Rich easily walks through it to the employee lounge. Ikea chairs and couches litter the room, many of them tipped over, probably from the rush of employees trying to escape the flames. Rich feels extremely dizzy, and on top of that has a pounding headache, but he sets it aside to focus on the task at hand. Maybe it's all the smoke, or the heat from the flames slowly threatening to close in, but he shouldn't be able to survive being in this section of the store for much longer.

" _Straigh- ahead. By the wa- wa-_ _水_ _cooler."_

"What was that?" Rich scurries forwards, soon reaching the water cooler. A fire extinguisher rests in a little pocket on the wall to its left. Did none of the employees think to try and use it? Since nobody else is around, Rich assumes they all got scared and ran away at the first sign of danger. What pussies. He yanks the fire extinguisher out of the pocket and holds it close to his chest, unsure of what to do with it. He waits for instruction, gasping for breath.

" _The mix-x-ture of heat and adrenal- aline is overheating m- my proces-_ _プロセッサー_ _Put out the- out the- fire. Go home. I'm proud of y-_ _おやすみなさい、兄弟_ _."_ And with that, the SQUIP powers down.

The SQUIP had never been "proud" of Rich before. He had only ever sounded disgusted, or disappointed, or incredibly sullen when talking about Rich's countless faults and flaws. Perhaps Rich misheard him. Maybe he had meant to say "peeved" or "pissed." Rich stands still for a few more seconds, by instinct. No more commands come. His mind is completely clear. Everything is completely silent, other than the crackling of the flames and his labored breathing.

He has to do this all on his own. But that's okay, because Hulk Hogan is proud of him. And that means nothing can bring him down. Rich grasps the nozzle of the fire extinguisher and fires wildly in front of him. No fire can withstand the power of Hulkmania, brother.

Back at the front of the store, Jeremy and Michael are, to put it lightly, flipping the fuck out. Jeremy makes a break for the store's main exit, but Michael stays behind. Jeremy only notices this when he's halfway out the door. He turns back to his friend, a panicked look in his eyes.

"What are you waiting for?"

"We have to help Laura!" Michael turns around to face the cash registers.

"You barely know her!" Jeremy sprints back over to his friend. There's no way in hell he'd leave his friend behind, even if he decides to be a dumbass and stay in a burning building.

The shorter teen's hair is soaked from the automatic fire sprinklers on the ceiling. "She seemed nice!"

But Laura is already out the door. She stares at them through the store's large glass windows with a bewildered look on her face.

"Um- wow. Okay." Jeremy takes Michael by the hand and leads him out through the exit doors. Other customers and employees of the store are waiting outside. Nobody looks to be harmed in any way, other than the few people coughing heartily or the one or two people crying from fear. Someone lights a cigarette, uncaring. People from neighboring stores are beginning to take interest in the sudden influx of people standing outside.

"Maybe one of us should call 911." Jeremy fumbles around in his pockets, searching for his phone.

"We might want to head back to Rich's car while we talk. Where is he?" Michael considers taking the phone from Jeremy; the taller teen is probably too stoned to accurately convey any important information. But Jeremy has a look of determination on his face and Michael isn't fond of talking to strangers on the phone. So it goes.

"I haven't seen him since we left the car… Do you think he's still inside?" Jeremy shoots a worried glance back to the grocery store. If Rich is still in there…

Michael shares his unease, albeit to a slightly lesser degree. "Where else could he be?"

Jeremy takes a step back towards the grocery store. Michael places a firm hand on his shoulder.

"I am _not_ letting you risk your life for Rich. He might not even be in there! For all we know, he could've gone to the Stop & Shop down the street!"

"He could be _dying._ Trapped, even. Someone _has_ to go in there. _"_

"You can't walk back into burning buildings! That's like, sad backstory fodder 101! You'll die just because the Sad Story Gods demand it, and Rich will somehow survive because that _always_ happens in shitty stories, and I'll be stuck with him having to explain to both of our parents how we got into this mess, acting as the grieving b-"

"911, what's your emergency?" Michael didn't even notice Jeremy take out his phone or dial for help.

"Um, I'd like to report a fire. Also, do you have Xanax or something? My friend needs it. No, he's not on fire. Actually, I don't think anyone's on fire. Except maybe one person. He's kind of a di-" Jeremy coughs. Cursing is _not_ something you should do around a 911 operator. He's heard horror stories of operators hanging up and refusing to take calls from people who spoke rudely to them. "We're at First and Main in Oldtown. Oh, you've already had calls about it?" Jeremy pauses. "But do you have the Xanax?" He pauses again, awaiting a response.

"She says you need a prescription, bro." He hangs up and shoves the phone back in his pocket.

"I never _asked_ for Xanax _."_ Michael raises an eyebrow at Jeremy. He's mastered that skill; raising only one eyebrow. It's been useful many times in the past.

Jeremy stares at the singular raised eyebrow, and tries to replicate it. He just winds up raising both eyebrows and looking like a scared Furby. _"_ You sound like you need a cup."

"A cup?" Michael drops the eyebrow, amused.

"Yeah, you drink it, don't you?" The taller teen is utterly oblivious.

"Jeremy." Michael takes a deep breath. "Sometimes you need to learn to stop talking."

"Yeah. Uh, she also said to stay away from the building, and that firefighters will be here soon." Jeremy stares down at his feet. "He told us to wait in the car, earlier. I don't want to watch any ambulances, you know, if- um-" It's clear that Jeremy would rather not hang around all the destruction caused by the fire.

"Got'cha. You remember where he parked?" The two begin to walk towards the parking lot as they talk.

"Nope." Jeremy shrugs.

"Me neither. We'll find it, though. Volvo, right?" Michael looks around the parking lot. None of the cars seem familiar.

"I think so." Jeremy pauses for a few moments. "It isn't our fault, right? We didn't start the fire or anything. I mean, we are pretty much the only reason he came here in the first place, but we didn't make him go in there."

"He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We had nothing to do with it." But Michael doesn't sound too sure of himself.

"At the wrong… time? Didn't he tell us to be out of the store by- when was it? 12 something? Was that when the fire started?" Jeremy pauses for dramatic effect, and because his mouth can't move nearly fast enough to explain all the thoughts in his head. "Did Rich _start_ the fire? Is that why he wanted us to leave so badly?"

Michael considers it for a moment. On any other day, he would dismiss the thought as some bullshit weed-induced conspiracy theory, but everything seems to add up. No, there has to be some other reason. Sure, Rich isn't the nicest guy, but he isn't an arsonist!

"It has to be a coincidence, right? There's no way he would know the _exact_ time the fire would start. Maybe- maybe the fire _didn't_ start then. Maybe it started a few minutes earlier, or later, and there was some other reason we needed to leave. Here- I can prove it." Michael pulls out his receipt from the items he bought at the grocery store.

"The fire started just after we bought everything, so the time on the receipt should be just before the time of the fire." He examines the small slip of paper. On top of the receipt the grocery store's name is displayed, and directly under that are the date and time of the transaction. Jeremy waits, a slightly nervous look on his face.

"12:27 AM."


	7. Chapter 7: A Guy That I'd Kinda Be Into

Summary: This week's episode involves Jeremy, Christine, and a certain someone getting tossed in the friendzone. Stay tuned!

* * *

Michael brings the paper closer to his face to the point where he can't even read it, as if that would change the numbers written, or somehow cause everything to make sense.

"Why would he _do_ something like that? This has to be some sort of misunderstanding, right? It _has_ to be."

"What else could've happened? Unless he's Raven Baxter, there's _no_ other way he would've known about the fire." Jeremy tries thinking everything through slowly, but his mind is racing beyond his control. "Unless- _unless_ some other group was going to set the fire, and he got tipped off about it, and decided to stop it himself instead of calling the police like a normal person and this theory _really_ isn't holding up now that I think about it."

"Yeah, that is a bit preposterous." As left-field as that theory sounds, Michael can't think of anything better.

The boys walk in a loop around the parking lot, unable to find Rich's car, before circling back to the front of the store. Michael is the one to spot the Volvo in the parking spot nearest to the entrance of the store, right where they left it. They spent all that time walking around the parking lot for nothing. Feeling like a couple of idiots, the two approach the car. The windows are down, a move probably taken by Rich to keep the two losers from suffocating or overheating or hotboxing the car while waiting inside. How long was he supposed to be gone, exactly? The doors are unlocked, so the two step into the car. Jeremy sits shotgun for the time being. But first, he puts the alcohol in the trunk. The rest of the food goes in the backseat. Hopefully Rich won't mind if they eat a bit while they wait for him to return.

The few firefighters still standing outside are talking to civilians, not taking an active interest in what's going on inside the store. On the bright side, it seems that the crisis is entirely under control. After a few more minutes, the two can see a group of figures standing inside the store. It's difficult to see through the windows, but two firefighters are talking with a stout, suited figure, perhaps a manager, along with someone else with blonde hair wearing a yellow shirt. The stout figure shakes the hand of the blonde, who is holding a fire extinguisher in the other hand.

"Is that Rich over there?" Jeremy points to the people in the window.

"It has to be. Nobody else I know has that combination of bottle blonde hair and general shortness." Michael squints, trying to get a better look.

"Why does he look so… um, chummy with those other guys?" Jeremy notices Michael squinting, so he squints as well. That just makes everything look sort of dark and slightly blurry. He opens his eyes again.

"No idea. It doesn't look like he's being arrested. More like…" One of the firefighters gives Rich a firm pat on the back. The other slaps his ass with a thick, gloved hand. Rich's face is indecipherable, especially from a distance. "Commended?"

"That's a level 5 ass slap right there. Definitely a commendation," Jeremy remarks with the confidence of a pro.

"Makes you wonder what a level 10 would be." Michael lies down across the back row of car seats.

"That would send your ass to another dimension, dude. Don't even think about it." The taller teen tries pressing some buttons and turning dials on the car's radio. Nothing happens, since the car isn't turned on. He tries again, with more force. Still, nothing happens.

"No need to worry. My arms are nowhere near strong enough for that sort of action." The shorter teen raises his flabby arms and waves them above his head. They look super puffy in his sweatshirt.

Jeremy snickers, relieved that the tension is at least somewhat broken. If Rich is holding a fire extinguisher and acting all buddy-buddy with a few firefighters, he must be innocent. He looks back to the window. The manager-looking person is pulling out a few chairs from behind the cash registers for the four to sit on as they talk. This is going to be a long night.

Since their worries of Rich being an arsonist are resolved, the teens wait for him to return to his vehicle so they can all go back home. The pair waits five minutes. Nothing of interest happens, so they wait some more. After ten more minutes, they begin to talk without restraint about whatever enters their minds. The mixture of exhaustion, relief, and good ol' Mary Jane cause their sentiments to be a bit less than coherent.

"If I told you once, I've told you a hundred times, Michael. NEVER talk to me about the Sonic X Lucky Charms commercial ever again." Jeremy feigns annoyance, but doesn't actually raise his voice. It's more of an inside joke sort of deal, not an actual argument.

"It was decent! That's all I'm saying. You don't have to like it, you just have to appreciate the artistry involved." The shorter teen opens up a bag of chips and shovels a handful into his mouth. Absolutely delicious.

"It's a shit commercial for a shit cereal and a shit game. That's all there is to it." Jeremy tries to open the frozen pizza, but Michael takes it from him. Now isn't the time for that.

"Oh, don't act all high and mighty over there. Remember that time your older cousin _begged_ you for an Animal Jam subscription, and you gave it to him?" Michael places the pizza in the seat next to him. He buckles it in. Safety first.

"He wouldn't leave me alone. What else was I supposed to do?" The taller teen remarks.

"He was, what, 30? He could've gotten it for himself." Michael covers his mouth to hide his laughter.

"His license only _said_ he was 30. He was actually 14." Jeremy rolls his eyes. Or, at least, he tries to. He really just ends up blinking a lot.

"He looked 30," Michael says.

Jeremy turns to look at Michael. "He drinks Monster every morning for breakfast. In his coffee. He shouldn't even be alive."

The ten minutes turn to twenty.

"You know that Discord app?" Jeremy is staring at the car's ceiling, his head tilted back. "At first, I kind of avoided it because I thought it was a My Little Pony thing. After like, a year or so, I realized that it was just a less broken version of Skype."

"Damn, dude. Can you use it to send nudes, though?" The shorter teen is only joking, of course. He awkwardly tries to stretch his legs, but doesn't have enough room to fully extend them.

"That's what Snapchat is for," Jeremy says, rubbing his eyes.

"Right, right." It's getting way past both of their bedtimes. The tiredness is seriously setting in.

Twenty minutes turn to thirty.

Jeremy is sitting upside-down in his seat. "As much as I love the original Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, you have to admit, they have their faults. They kinda became the catalyst for Five Nights at Freddy's culture. All the creepy animals with weird shit on their faces- the resemblance is uncanny."

Michael is seriously confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Yep, his mind is a bit scrambled from the drugs and tiredness. "Animals shouldn't be walking and talking like that. At least- turtles shouldn't. Just trust me, Michael. It's all connected." He makes a triangle around his eye with his fingers.

It really isn't connected. At all. Michael tries to continue the conversation with little success. "Well… have you seen the Pizza Time video?"

"Nope. What is it?" Jeremy's feet rest delicately on the seat's headrest. He tries to create footprints on the ceiling, but fortunately his shoes are pretty clean.

"It's kind of like that Spongebob episode with the pizza delivery, but… not at all. Um- actually, you don't want to know." Michael rubs the back of his neck. Not even an eleven year friendship can withstand the horrors of _Pizza Time_ without some serious consequences.

Thirty minutes turn to forty.

"Maybe Rich really is Raven Baxter." Now that the two have finished eating all of the potato chips, Jeremy is kind of bored with waiting. The taller teen leans his seat back, squishing Michael where he sits. Michael responds with an annoyed 'dude.' Jeremy retaliates by leaning the seat back even further. The shorter teen covers Jeremy's eyes with his hands until he raises the seat back to its original position.

"Think about it, though. It looks like he's innocent, right? And he knew the _exact_ time of the fire, and went to stop it, right? The fire must've been started by accident, or he would've went to the police about it. He _must_ have future vision." Jeremy looks over at the frozen pizza. It isn't so frozen anymore as much as it is cold and slightly damp.

"We don't know that. Maybe he set it and put it out himself for the attention. He isn't above that," Michael says.

Jeremy isn't convinced. "But he told us to leave the store. If he wanted attention, he would've allowed us to watch him put it out. Eyewitnesses and everything, you know?"

"Maybe. There's something here we're missing, I just know it." Michael sighs.

Jeremy tries to unbox the pizza as quietly as possible so Michael won't hear him. The cardboard makes a ripping noise, so he covers it up with some terribly off-key karaoke. "If you could gaze into the future…" He cups one hand around his mouth to mimic an echo. "Future… future… You might think life would be a breeze."

"Life is a breeze!" Michael joins in.

"Seeing trouble from a distance, ye-e-e-ah!" He rips the cardboard a bit too loudly.

"Go Ra- wait, are you _seriously_ going to eat that? You could get salmonella!" Michael smacks Jeremy's hands away from the pizza box.

Jeremy looks taken aback. "This isn't salmon, though. It's pizza."

And forty minutes turn to forty-five.

Jeremy is sitting in the driver's spot, his seat leaned back as far as it'll go. "You know, I think I might have a chance with Christine. I just need to be more confident, you know. Stay loose. Relaxed. The opposite of what I usually am."

Michael has the second row tilted back as well. It's much more comfortable that way. "You just need to be yourself around her."

"It won't work. She likes acting, I'm into old movies." Jeremy sighs and dramatically throws a hand over his forehead. "She's drama club leader and I'm on the bleachers. She would never fall for someone like me."

Michael tries to clean his glasses, but the car is too dark for him to see any dirt on the lenses. He gives them a quick swipe on his sweatshirt and calls it a day. "Moping about it isn't going to help. You just need to tell her how you feel. Make her a mixtape or something."

"Of what? Broadway musical soundtracks? I don't even _know_ any musicals." Except, of course, one from when his middle school forced him to perform in _Oliver!_ But a story of child labor, abuse, and wife-murder wouldn't fit very well on a mixtape.

"Tons of musicals are about romance, just Google it or something. Wicked got popular a few years ago, right? Maybe that has something." Neither of the two had seen Wicked, but surely it had some sort of romance in it, right? It must've, otherwise it wouldn't have been such a huge hit with soccer moms and high school girls.

"Maybe…" Jeremy thinks about it for a second. He has a few spare CDs in his closet he could use to make a mixtape. Nobody uses cassettes anymore, so it'll have to do. He makes a mental note to search Broadway love songs later, then promptly forgets about it. "Maybe… I should call her."

"You have her number?" Michael is a bit surprised. Jeremy can't so much as give Christine a simple 'hello' when they pass each other in the hallways, let alone ask for her phone number.

"Everyone had to exchange numbers for the 7th grade musical. I just never deleted hers. Do you think she's even awake?"

"She's probably studying her lines, or something. She always gets the lead roles, right? She doesn't have time to sleep."

"Should I, like, send a dick pic?" Jeremy loosens his belt and reaches in his pocket to grab his phone.

" _Jeremy!"_ Michael shouts with the intensity of a 12 year old at a famous YouTuber's Vidcon panel.

"It was just a joke, calm down." He retightens his belt, but keeps his phone out. "It's too dark in here for that, anyways."

Michael is visibly relieved. "Geez… she'd _actually_ hate you for that. Forever. Unless you dressed it up as a character from _Les Miserables."_

"You could put that shit in the Museum of Mordern Art, dude. But, yeah, nah, I think I'll just text her. Help me out?" The taller teen fumbles with his passcode for a bit before finally unlocking his phone.

"Sure thing." Jeremy texting a girl while high probably isn't the best idea, or even a _good_ idea for that matter, but the odds that a sober Jeremy would make a move on Christine are infinitesimal. At least Michael could keep him in check.

Jeremy opens his messaging app and starts a new conversation with a number nicknamed "Christine" with an emoji of theatrical masks next to it. "So… when I say 'hey' how many times do I use the letter 'y'? Is three too pushy? I don't want to seem too forward."

"Three is fine. Capitalize the "h" though. You want to seem business casual." Michael looks over Jeremy's shoulder at the phone.

Jeremy types out "heyyyyy", adds a smiling devil emoji, and sends the text.

Michael is not amused. "Do you have a personal vendetta against me?"

"You know nothing about talking to women. I'm just increasing my chances of success by doing the exact opposite of everything you say." The taller teen is completely unapologetic. Ouch.

"That's ice cold, Jeremy." Michael crosses his arms.

"Alright, alright, alright, alright, I'll do what you want for the next text." Jeremy waves one hand, dismissively.

Still a bit pissed off, Michael takes a deep breath and searches his soul for some solid advice. "You need to give a reason for talking to her. Say you want to ask for advice about auditioning for a part. She'll probably be more than happy to give you tips. That'll get a conversation going."

Jeremy carefully types out his message. "sorry for texting so late haha i just have an audition coming up soon and i was wondering if u have any tips? you always get lead roles so youd know better than anyone"

He hits send, then waits, staring down at the phone. Jeremy finally fully realizes what he just did.

"This was a bad idea."

"It's progress." Michael shrugs. It isn't as if Jeremy typed anything unforgivable.

Nope. Jeremy had never had a full conversation with Christine before; she probably thinks his sudden midnight rambling is some weird way to creep on her. She won't be able to forgive him for this. What kind of loser texts after midnight, unless they're trying to get a booty call? _Shit,_ she probably thinks Jeremy is aiming for a one-night stand. His love life is completely finished for the rest of his life _and_ he's out of potato chips. Things can't possibly get any worse. "How do I unsend a text message?"

Normally, Michael would consider this some sort of set up to a lame joke, but Jeremy seems completely serious. "Um, you can't. Once it's out there, it's out there."

Jeremy stares at his phone for a second, then promptly throws it out the window. It lands a good distance away with a loud _thwack._

Michael stares at his friend with wide eyes. "That… isn't going to help."

"I have a Lifeproof case. It'll be fine… right? It's good for stress relief. You know, being too wound up all the time is unhealthy." When Michael doesn't respond, Jeremy slowly gets out of the car and retrieves his phone, slightly embarrassed, still sulking. The case is a bit scratched and a few of the edges are worn, but the phone itself is fine. It seems the ghost of Steve Jobs has granted him mercy this time.

In an attempt to act casual, Jeremy tries to strike up some conversation. Anything to get his mind off of his terrible texting failures. "Speaking of romance, Michael, how's your love life been? Still lacking, as usual?"

"I don't even know why you bother asking." Michael shifts around in his seat. He really doesn't like talking about this sort of thing.

Jeremy doesn't pick up on Michael's discomfort. He's just glad to be off the subject of Christine. If Jeremy thinks about how sophomoric his text was for any longer, his brain will implode, and he'll die. Slowly. Painfully. Without a single potato chip to soothe his soul. "Still no luck? Do you plan on being single all four years of high school? You need the experience, man. High school dating is all about experience. Apparently. So I've heard." Jeremy has no experience.

"It's not my fault none of the girls here are up to my standards." They do live in New Jersey, after all. A place where everything is legal and nothing should be.

"Or maybe they just don't want to date a stoner who only listens to 80s music," Jeremy says, smirking.

"If nobody here wants to listen to truly good music, that's their problem. Not mine." Maybe it would be best if Michael is honest with Jeremy. Honest with himself. That would make everything so much easier in the long run. He wouldn't have to freak out every time romance is brought up, for one.

Jeremy is relentless. "Come on, surely you have to like _someone_ at school. At least _one person._ Our school has, like, 2,000 people in it. Odds are you like one of 'em."

"Well…" Michael turns to look out the open window. It's still not too late to turn back. He could drop the subject and pretend like nothing ever happened. But that would just be delaying the inevitable. Like trying to keep a furry from wearing cat ears to school. But there's always the chance things won't be so bad. Like the furry finding the school's anime club. Perhaps Jeremy won't mind.

"Well?" Jeremy raises his seat and turns around to face Michael.

"There is one person-" Michael continues staring out the window with unwavering intensity. His hands are clammy and sweaty. He wipes them on his pants.

"Michaellll!" Jeremy sounds as happy as a goth at a Hot Topic summer sale. "Who is she? I'll be your wingman, dude, just tell me what you need me to do."

Nope. He can't do this. Both of them are sitting in the back of a jock's car, high, tired out of their minds, and they don't have any potato chips to break the tension. Now is _not_ the time. "Um, I- I dunno, Jer." He wrings his hands, his voice barely above a whisper.

Jeremy doesn't seem to notice Michael's reluctance to give a straight answer. "Just give me the word and we can work out a plan. I may not be smooth myself, but if we team up, you'll look suave by comparison! No girl could resist!"

"Geez, maybe you should tone it down a notch." The shorter teen looks around the parking lot, praying that nobody can hear them.

"What's her name? There's no need to be embarrassed! I swear I won't laugh. Is it May Goldenstein? Abbey Cook? She isn't so bad, as long as you can get past her obsession with drawing obscure cartoon characters. But that's not important!"

"No, it's neither of them. Uh…" Michael's stomach is slowly tying itself into knots upon knots. It would be so _easy_ to lie and make up a name and say she went to a different school, or to pick any of the popular girls just to get Jeremy off his back, but that would be an obvious lie. And Jeremy would be able to tell he was lying. It would just make everything worse. The knots keep twisting tighter and tighter. Maybe he shouldn't have eaten so many chips.

"You know, you're going to have to tell me eventually. Because I won't leave you alone until you do. Think about it, though. This is kind of exciting! You haven't dated anyone since, like, forever." Jeremy clumsily makes his way to the backseat by crawling over everything in his path. He loses a shoe in the process.

"Yeah, yep. No need to rub it in." Michael takes a deep breath, but his throat is tight enough that he almost feels to be suffocating. He tries to clear his throat, but that just makes it worse. Jeremy's eyes are as wide as dinner plates in his excitement.

"So… tell me."

"I- um- no."

"Tell me."

"Nope."

" _Tell me."_

"I… can't."

"You can't?"

"I can't tell you." Michael crosses his arms. He can't bring himself to make eye contact with Jeremy, no matter how hard he tries. He decides to stare down at the floor instead. The carpet is pristine, aside from a few potato chip crumbs. Rich is definitely going to be pissed about that. The shorter teen wonders how it would feel to use some sort of invisibility potion, or perhaps a spray, like in that one Spongebob episode. That would be immensely useful right about now.

"And why is that? I already told you, I won't laugh. I actually mean it, I mean, I've had that happen to me before where the person says they won't laugh but they end up laughing, but I _actually_ won't laugh." Jeremy is too focused on the Michael-is-finally-into-someone hype train to notice his friend's extreme discomfort.

This is going nowhere. Michael takes a deep breath, trying to force his hands to stop shaking. He can feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, like the drum beat to a war song. "I can't tell you because… the person I like isn't- isn't a girl." Michael shuts his eyes completely and forgets how to breathe for a solid second or so.

"Y- wh- yo- um, what?" Jeremy stammers, completely taken off guard.

Michael doesn't respond. He scans Jeremy's face for any emotion, but the taller teen mostly looks confused.

Jeremy waits a few more seconds before speaking. "So… you're into cougars? I never thought you were into the older type, Michael."

"Th- that isn't what I meant." Michael can feel his face growing deeper and deeper shades of crimson by the second. His hands won't stop trembling, so he sits on them. He still can't muster up the strength to look Jeremy in the eye.

Jeremy stares at Michael, unmoving. They sit, unspeaking, for another thirty seconds or so, but to Michael it feels like an eternity. Jeremy is the one to break the silence.

"So, like, slow down a second. I can't- I don't understand what you're saying." He means that literally. It's almost as if Michael is speaking another language. Time in general seems pretty wonky to Jeremy. Everything is sort of slow and floaty, as if underwater.

Michael wants nothing more than to stop speaking for the next decade or so, if not longer. "There's nothing you _can_ be confused about. I mean, if I'm not into girls, there's only one other option."

"Horses," Jeremy says with an air of certainty.

" _ **Jeremy**_ _."_ Michael isn't even mad, he's just disappointed. Very, very disappointed.

"That's a thing now, right? I've stumbled on these kinda gross pictures online-" The taller teen begins monologuing, but is quickly cut off by his friend.

" _Focus,_ Jeremy. Just- just think about it. I'm trying to be _serious,_ here." Michael's face is sort of scrunched up, and he's starting to look a bit… upset. He looks up at Jeremy. Jeremy wonders what horse hurt him so badly in the past to make him react this way. "Just listen, okay? I don't want you to freak out or anything, but…" Michael's voice trails off.

Jeremy stares at Michael for a second, the gears in his head slowly turning. It finally dawns on him.

"So you're, um, you're…" Jeremy can't bring himself to say it. The look on his face is confirmation enough that he got the message.

"Yeah." Apparently, Michael either can't or won't say it as well. His heart is still pounding in his chest, and Jeremy's hesitation is _not_ helping his stress levels. This was a mistake. One that can't be solved by defenestration or by simply changing the subject.

Another uncomfortable silence is broken by Jeremy. "…So, who is… he?"

Michael doesn't respond. His brain is clocked out.

"I mean, I guess I'm- I'm fine with it. We could still try and, um, I could wingman, somehow." Jeremy is sailing into uncharted waters here. He's more confused than anything else, but he still wants to help his friend in any way possible. "Is it Rich? Is that why you wanted to ride with him so bad?"

"Firstly, _you_ wanted to go to his house in the first place. That was all _your_ idea. Secondly, I'm not a masochist. Lastly, he's definitely not my type." Michael would rather drink ocean water than date Rich. Without hesitation.

Jeremy isn't really sure what to make of it. "Who is your 'type' then? I mean, I guess I don't mind too much, just as long as, like, you don't try to hit on me or anything."

Once again, Michael forgets how to breathe. He tries to answer, but his mouth isn't cooperating. He desperately wishes he could sink into the ground and never come back up.

"I mean, you've, like, seen me change in gym class. And like, in those weird open showers everyone uses after swimming at the public pool. You know, where you get completely naked? I mean, if you stared at me, that'd be, pfft, that'd just be weird." That's an understatement. Jeremy would be _very_ upset if someone ever stared at him in a locker room for literally any reason. Partly because he's about as muscular as a toddler with helicopter parents, but mostly because locker room person-watching is an eleven on the creeper scale. Or higher. And the scale is out of five.

"No. _No!_ Jeremy, I never-" Michael can feel his face flushing a deep shade of red. Hopefully the light is low enough that Jeremy won't be able to see it. He had _never_ looked at anyone changing in locker rooms. He would always just stare down at his feet. It always made putting on his shirt awkward, but he fought through it. "Do you _honestly_ think I would stoop to- to doing things like _that?"_

The taller teen isn't entirely convinced. "You ever think about how every cartoon has an episode where the main character turns invisible, and he _always_ goes to the girl's locker room? Imagine that, bu-"

Michael is quick to cut him off, the frustration in his voice as clear as day. " _My life isn't a cartoon, Jeremy._ "

"Well- they're based on real life, sometimes. Um- like, that episode of Spongebob, with the chocolate bars."

Michael is nonplussed, in the non-American sense of the word. "What universe do you live in where people can turn invisible?"

"Why are you changing the subject?" Jeremy retaliates. "You keep dodging my questions."

Michael is taken aback. "I- I don't know what you _want_ from me."

"I just want you to tell me, with complete honesty, who it is you're 'in love with' or whatever you'd call it. Michael? _Who is he_?" Jeremy's voice is demanding now.

"I shouldn't have said anything. We can just- we can pretend this never happened, okay? Everything can go back to how it was before. Can you just do that for me?" Tears sting the corners of his eyes. He scoots himself as far away from Jeremy as the row of seats will allow, and he drops his gaze.

Jeremy notices this, and his voice softens. He feels terrible for making his best friend feel so bad, but he isn't feeling so great either. He isn't sure if his friendship with Michael was a ruse, or if Michael _ever_ truly cared about him as a friend for that matter, but he just feels… shitty. Like everything is out of his control. And he's never been good at dealing with upset people, either. Once, when he had to work as a counselor at a summer camp, he tried to offer a Snickers bar to a kid who was crying during their lunch period. It turns out, he was crying because he was having an allergic reaction to the camp's peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The Snickers only made things worse. Jeremy is starting to feel like the Snickers bar right about now. "How long has it been like this?"

Michael can barely stammer out his answer. "Well, I've known for about two years, but… I mean, it never became a thing with _you_ until… more recently."

Jeremy shudders, whether with disgust or something else is unclear. He looks up at Michael. The shorter teen is obviously fighting back tears, and he looks to be on the losing side. He looks as if he wants to run away and hide and never look back, and Jeremy feels _absolutely terrible_ knowing he caused his friend to feel this way. But he isn't sure if they _can_ remain friends after this. Is that even an option? Does Michael see him as a friend, or as a piece of meat?

What were the countless hours spent watching movies and playing old video games for? Was Michael lying about his interest in 64 bit games for the sake of impressing Jeremy? Was his love for 20 year old soda a lie, too? Or his obsession with 80s music? He _had_ suggested Jeremy lie to Christine about liking theater in order to get closer to her, after all.

But Michael had been friends with him for much longer than two years. Jeremy could clearly remember the two of them playing together in preschool. Actually, they first met because Michael beat the shit out of Jeremy during recess in the second week of classes, and Jeremy, for some reason, respected him for it. Maybe it was because they were fighting over Jeremy's Power Ranger action figures. They both wanted to be the Red Ranger. That's a stupid way to make friends, of course, but it somehow managed to work out in the end. And Michael had stuck with Jeremy through thick and thin, through times when Jeremy would've left himself for dead, given the chance. Could either of them give their friendship up so easily? Jeremy certainly doesn't _want_ to lose his friend…

Meanwhile, Michael is trying his best to formulate a plan on the fly. Maybe, just maybe, if he can convince Jeremy to eat the rest of his brownies, he'll be too stoned to remember anything from tonight. But that sounds illegal. He's not entirely sure what law it would break, but if something _sounds_ illegal, it probably _is_ illegal. There isn't much else he can do. Jeremy's face looks to be a mixture of confused, appalled, and disgusted, and sitting in the car isn't doing anything to help that.

The shorter teen's mind is an inescapable snowstorm of hopeless thoughts. His best friend hates him because he couldn't keep his mouth shut. Telling him was a mistake, and he can never take it back. Nobody else knows, not even his parents. For what feels like the first time in his life, Michael has absolutely nobody to turn to. He's completely and entirely alone.

Michael can feel a familiar tightening in his chest as his pulse skyrockets. All the stress is giving him a headache, but that's of little concern compared to the impending sense of doom he can feel from the very core of his body. He needs some fresh air. Immediately. Like, two minutes ago.

"I need- I- um- I'm going- to-… take a walk. Just-" He takes a shaky breath. "Eleven years, Jeremy. I've known you for eleven years. Don't- don't forget that." It sounds like he's pleading to Jeremy for _something,_ but Jeremy isn't sure what.

The taller teen opens his mouth, as if he's about to say something, but he stops himself.

Michael quietly grabs the car door handle and cracks the door open. Before he can so much as step one foot out, in a straight-up horror movie fashion, a hand grabs the end of the door and yanks it open. Michael, his hand still on the door, falls forwards onto the solid pavement below. He feels a sharp pain where his nose smacks into the asphalt and a warm liquid running down his face.

Standing above him, with his trademark shit-eating grin worn on his face like a badge of honor, is Richard Fucking Goranski.

* * *

"She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,

Feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought,

And with a green and yellow melancholy

She sat like patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief."

-William Shakespeare, _Twelfth Night_


	8. Chapter 8: Codename Forget About The Boy

Summary: And in the moonlight don't you think about him

Sister you're much better off without him

You can blow the blues a kiss goodbye

And put the sun back in the sky

For when he comes crawlin'

I'm not fallin'

Hallelujah!

* * *

"I always thought Michael was a pansy, but this is _too much."_ Richard's voice is oozing with smug satisfaction. "Oh my _God,_ I can't wait to tell Jenna about this shit. I hope this parking lot has good cell service."

Michael brings a hand up to his nose. It's quickly doused in a stream of lukewarm blood. He lays on the dirty asphalt for a few moments, dazed, his glasses slightly cracked and resting on the ground next to him. When did gravity become so… painful? It doesn't occur to him for a good thirty seconds that the rapid door-opening could've been intentional. Now he's starting to understand why Jeremy abhors even the sight of Rich in the hallways at school.

"If you thought school was bad before, you're in for a whole new world of shit starting Monday."

Jeremy reaches out a hand towards Michael, but hesitates, unsure if Rich will allow it. Rich shoots him a harsh stare, so Jeremy withdraws his hand. He tries to distract Rich with small talk. "So- erm- how much of that did you hear, exactly?"

"I heard enough. If you didn't want anyone listening in, you shouldn't have been talking so loud _with the windows down._ I'm actually kind of surprised neither of you were smart enough to, you know, whisper, maybe? _"_ He sounds absolutely jovial, as if the entire situation is something straight out of a sitcom. As if Jerry Seinfeld will enter screen left and begin dishing out stand-up shots to an unseen audience. He can hardly keep himself from laughing.

Michael looks about as helpless as a turtle that's been flipped onto its back. He's struggling to get back to his feet, and he has a wild, panicked look in his eyes that can clearly be seen even in the dim streetlights of the parking lot. With levels of urgency equal to that of a cornered animal, he does the only thing he can think to: stall for time. "So… Rich! Can you tell us what you were doing during the fire? I'm still a bit confu-"

"Don't try to change the subject, Headphones! That isn't important right now. You should be more concerned that with one phone call the entire school could know about your little 'secret.'" Rich sounds as drunk with power as a kindergartener with a pack of 128 Crayola crayons.

"Gee, that sounds a bit dramatic, doesn't it?" He feigns indifference, hoping that Rich will grow bored with tormenting him.

Rich refuses to stand down. "If you _really_ don't mind, I guess you'd be perfectly fine with me calling Jenna right now. Or, even better, _you_ could talk to her. How does that sound?"

Michael hesitates for a second, then turns to face Rich. Despite being bloody and on the ground, he stares Rich directly in the eyes without flinching. "Fuck. You."

" _Michael!"_ Jeremy brings a hand to his chest in absolute terror, like a soccer mom after finding out her teenage son doesn't actually love her homemade vegan lemon squares.

Rich bends down to get to eye-level with Michael. His eyes are daggers as he rests inches from the shorter teen's face. "Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? I really don't know what else I expected from such a _faggot."_ Malice coils itself around each word like a boa constrictor around an unlucky prey.

That's it. Without so much as picking up his newly broken glasses, Michael gets to his feet and storms off in a random direction. Rich attempts to block his path as Michael makes quick work of shoulder-checking him aside. Or, at least, he tries to. The collision sends him stumbling sideways for a few steps, enough for both Rich and Jeremy to see the telltale streaks of tears trailing down Michael's face. Jeremy notices a look of complete vulnerability that he had never seen on his friend's face before.

"Holy shit! Are you… crying?" Rich's face is plastered with an expression of pure delight. "Awww, is little baby Michael gonna cry? Does he need his binky, or just his widdle blankie enough?"

Jeremy fumbles, trying to make his way out of the car, but Rich steps in front of his exit path. The taller teen is about to turn around and use one of the other three car doors to exit, but he realizes that no matter how much he comforts Michael, no matter how many times he says things will be okay, the fact of the matter is that Rich _will_ spill the tea unless Jeremy can think of a plan within the next minute or so. And he needs to be around Rich to make that happen. All those brownies he ate earlier certainly aren't helping him think…

Michael covers his face like a B-list celebrity around paparazzi and rushes away, trying with all of his might to contain his sniffling. He fails miserably. The short teen can still hear Rich's taunting as he rounds a corner to another line of stores in the strip mall beside the grocery store. His face feels burning hot with shame, and the path in front of him is blurred with tears. The edges of his vision seem to fade into an eerie, inky blackness, yet the little outdoor hallway in front of the strip mall is well-lit enough that he should be able to see his surroundings clearly. As soon as he's out of earshot of the other two teens, he slumps against a nearby brick wall and lets out a choked sob. Once the floodgates open, there's nothing he can do to stop himself from morphing into a complete mess of a person. Between his desperate attempts to halt his crying and his fraught prayers that nobody should see him in such a terrible state, he hardly has the capacity to remember to breathe. It's starting to become a problem. Or, as some would call it, a motif. Maybe he needs to take a yoga class, or something.

This is an absolutely heinous night. Michael rubs his face on one of his oversized sweatshirt sleeves. Luckily, the blood from his nosebleed isn't altogether too noticeable due to the similarity in color. That makes him feel a bit better, somehow. He spends another minute or so regaining his composure by taking deep breaths and wiping off his face onto various different parts of his sweatshirt sleeves. Still sniffling slightly, he ducks into one of the somehow still open stores in the strip mall. Perhaps he could find a bathroom to splash some water on his face. That probably would've been better to do _before_ staining his sweatshirt sleeves, but it can't be helped.

The store turns out to be some sort of discount store, like a Walmart, but smaller and more shitty. The floors are scuffed and marred with about a decade's worth of dirt, and the near-barren shelves are stocked with knock-offs of knock-off brands of cereals, cleaning solutions, and the like. Michael would be more than happy to browse the selections of Nutty Nibblers and Frosted Fun Balls (now with added calcium!) if he wasn't currently covered in his own blood, sweat, and tears. Michael makes his way to the back of the store, unnoticed by the exhausted-looking staff who truly couldn't give less of a shit. Honestly, even if Michael had come in wearing a hot-dog costume and had started firing various condiments out of an array of t-shirt cannons, and even if he began a tirade of food-based insults upon each and every cashier, stockboy, and sales agent, their only concern would be over which one of them would have to clean the mess before the store manager found out. Grateful for the lack of the all-too-common overly intrusive shopkeepers, the shorter teen makes a beeline for the men's restroom and is about to head inside when-

"You can't go in there. It's closed for cleaning, nya?"

Michael tenses up and looks up to find a young, seedy-looking stockboy standing a few feet away from him, a bored look on his face. His greasy black hair glints in the florescent lighting. He has a few strands of hair on his upper lip that could be considered a mustache if you tilted your head and squinted, and between the anime pins on his apron and the fact that his name tag is signed with a cat emoticon on the end, Michael isn't sure if he should be scared or _terrified._ He tries to speak, but he notices a pin of a nearly-naked anime girl with pink hair and cat ears right over where the stockboy's heart would be. The waifu looks extremely young, even by cartoon standards. Fuck. This can't be real life, can it? Maybe tonight was just some sort of terrible nightmare, and he'll wake up any moment. There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like home.

But he doesn't wake up. The stockboy is starting to get a sort of awkward look on his face, like he wants to be alone but refuses to say anything more to the teen. Michael puts him out of his misery.

"Well- I- um, need… to?"

The worker is completely unapologetic. He's really phoning it in tonight. "You can't now. You'll just have to wait, nya." Perfect. Where else is Michael supposed to go to mope? Bathrooms are perfect loitering material!

The stockboy looks Michael up and down. Something about the teen seems to pique his interest. He drops his voice to a whisper and motions for Michael to come closer. Michael doesn't, but he stops to listen anyways. "So… what happened to you, man? Did your bitch break up with you, or something? Get in a fight maybe?"

Michael is about to answer, but the stockboy continues.

"I can fix you up with something good. $40 for a bottle of Vodka. Or any other brand in the store, really. You in?"

So _that's_ what this is about. Thoroughly disgusted, Michael turns around and walks directly out of the store. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. The stockboy calls out after him.

"Fine, fine! $35! Come back…" He mumbles something in extremely broken Japanese and finishes off with a quiet 'baka.'

Only in New Jersey.

Meanwhile, Jeremy is in the process of formulating a plan. Of course, he first has to come up with some sort of code name for the plan to spice things up a bit. Codename: Michael Protection Project. No, that's too obvious. Codename: Make Rich Your Bitch. That's a bit better, but it's still missing something. Codename: His Name Might Be Rich But His Spirits Are Poor. That one seems a bit long. Jeremy is trying to think of a better codename when Rich interrupts his thoughts. The bully pulls out his phone and unlocks it, probably to call Jenna Rolan and tell her about the night's developments. The huge phone screen lights up to full brightness, momentarily blinding Jeremy. Rich uses a Samsung, because of course he does. Jeremy's surprised he could fit the phone even in his obscenely deep cargo pants pockets. Unfortunately, there isn't time to mock Samsung right now. With all the time the teen wasted thinking of codenames, he only has about twenty seconds until Rich completely destroys Michael's reputation.

That's what his codename was missing; a sense of urgency!

Completely ignoring Jeremy, Rich opens his phone app and searches for Jenna Rolan's contact information. Her name is saved under "Loudmouth." He's about to tap on her cell number to call her, when Jeremy firmly places a hand over the phone screen.

Rich is quick to slap his hand away. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

The taller teen freezes up for a moment. "I- um, I… don't think Jenna Rolan needs to know about this."

Rich isn't amused in the slightest. "Get the hell out of my car. I never said I would take you home. Why are you still here?"

But Jeremy refuses to back down. He decides to create a diversion on the fly. At the very least, he could hopefully buy himself some time to do something like grab Rich's phone and throw it out the window. That always works! He just needs to say something completely out there, something that nobody would expect him to say. "Because… _because_ Michael isn't the one you need to worry about."

" _Excuse me?"_ Rich must've misheard him. Or this could be a weird, comic misunderstanding. Like something out of a Shakespeare play. Or a Seinfeld episode.

Jeremy takes a deep breath and continues, willing himself to sound more confident than he feels, which is to say he would sound like he has _any_ confidence at all. "Sure, he's hot and all, but he's just so _boring._ I mean, not like you." Yep, this is going off the rails. But Rich's expression is stuck somewhere between annoyance and bewilderment, and he seems intrigued enough that he hasn't forcibly removed Jeremy from the car yet.

"A- are you coming on to me?" Approximately neither of the people in the car can believe the shit coming out of Jeremy's mouth.

"I'm only stating the facts. It's no secret that you're one of the best looking underclassmen at our school. I mean, I didn't want this getting out, but I guess the cat's out of the bag." That middle bit is a slight exaggeration, but a bit of flattery couldn't hurt.

"…What the fuck?" Rich looks around the car, searching for unseen cameras that would belong to the crew of a two-bit prank show. But those don't really exist anymore, do they? Maybe it's for a YouTube video, then. Rich waits for Jeremy to say some variation of the line 'it's just a prank, bro.'

"I mean, Michael… he _says_ he's bi, but I think it's just some sort of grab for attention. Never actually follows through. I mean, maybe its better he's gone. Now we're completely alone." Jeremy lies through his teeth, but it might sound convincing enough to persuade Rich to forget about Michael. Sure, the shorter teen would be a more vulnerable target, but if Jeremy talks himself up enough he might overshadow everything else. Jeremy will be committing social suicide, but at least he would have peace of mind knowing that his best friend is safe. The rumors will fade away after he (hopefully) finds a girlfriend, anyways. Michael wouldn't have that luxury.

This joke has gone on for far too long. It's starting to get… weird. It makes Rich feel weird. Weird all around. "What the _**fuck**_ _?_ I thought he- _"_

For good measure, Jeremy lightly places one hand on Rich's shoulder. "But, I mean, you said yourself, you're into it, right? How if I tried something funny, you'd- how did you phrase it? _Fuck my a-"_

Rich removes the hand with a sense of urgency. _"No!_ You _know_ I didn't mean that!"

Everything seems to be going just about as smoothly as it could be. Jeremy just has to take it a _bit_ father. "I'm not sure I believe that. You know what a Freudian slip is, right? I mean, isn't it always best to be _completely honest?"_

Rich crosses his arms. "All I know is I'm _honest_ ly two seconds away from turning your face into a hamburger Gordon Ramsey would cry over."

Jeremy stares at him quizzically.

"Because it'll be raw? From me punching it? Don't you ever watch cooking shows? Is _any_ of this getting through to you?" Admittedly, that quip was a bit of a stretch, but food-related puns aren't that difficult to understand.

Jeremy doesn't usually like to watch angry British men yell at food, but he has seen a few videos online while shitfaced. "Is that the one with Nino?"

"Who the hell is Nino? Look- the point is, I don't know what sort of game you're playing but I'm not putting up with it. I don't know if it's because you're high or just fucked up in the head, but this ends _now."_ Rich re-orients himself and grabs his phone, which had somehow found its way to the floor by his left foot.

It all comes down to this. Jeremy has to choose his words wisely. His next statements could be the difference between Michael becoming a social outcast or him remaining just another face in the crowd. Whatever he says can, and will, be used against either himself, Michael, or a combination of the two to strengthen or destroy their place on the social hierarchy. He needs to use extreme caution in selecting his response.

Jeremy deliberates for a moment, then speaks, looking Rich directly in the eye. _"_ …So that's a no to the handjob?"

Rich gives Jeremy a quick look up and down, then twitches for a moment, as if he's being shocked by a school locker on a dry winter day. Rapidly approaching the hue of a cherry tomato, the short teen grabs Jeremy by the collar of his shirt and drags him out of the car. Jeremy struggles, but he's no match for Rich, who easily throws him to the ground. The semi-frozen pizza and empty bags of chips follow a second later. The left side of Jeremy's face slides for a moment across the asphalt- enough for a droplets of blood to rise on his skin. Rich then swiftly kicks him in the ribs, hops back in his car, and speeds off, careful not to run over Jeremy in the process. Sure, beating him is all well and good, but vehicular manslaughter would be, well, overkill. Rich tries to stick his arm out through the window to flip Jeremy off, but in his haste he ends up aiming too low and ramming his hand into the car door handle.

Jeremy coughs and brings himself to his feet, honestly pleased that he's somehow still alive. Sure, his ribs hurt- enough that he'll have a bruise in the morning- but Rich seemed far too flustered to care about Michael. Jeremy's open attempts to hit on him will make a much better story for Jenna. With any luck, Michael won't even be a footnote in Jenna's shitshow of a twitter page.

Mission accomplished.

With a smile, along with quite a bit of blood, on his face, Jeremy steps towards the line of stores that make up the strip mall. He just has to find Michael and get home in time to enjoy the gooey goodness of the defrosting pizza. Jeremy grabs the dented box from the ground and holds it close to his chest.

Codename: Two Player Game is now in progress.

* * *

Confession: Once I went to Walmart feeling kind of sick, but I didn't think it was that bad until the room started swaying and everything felt very _very_ cold. So I stumbled over to the bathroom to splash some water on my face and this worker told me it was closed, but I could use the restroom on the other side of the store. I made it about six steps before I collapsed. Both employees and customers walked by me without stopping to see if I was either okay or doing some white-trash performance art. It was like a normal Tuesday for them. I kind of respect their ability to not give a fuck.

Confession 2: In the first draft of this chapter Rich was _much_ ruder and more violent, especially towards Michael. I felt like that would be far too painful to read, so I toned it down a few notches.

* * *

Jeremy, oh Jeremy, silly boy

Gee, what a real swell guy

Jeremy, oh Jeremy, what great joy

He makes my troubles fly!


	9. Chapter 9: Means to an End

Summary: Jeremy searches for his friend, but it seems the universe has other plans for him. Mostly involving some dickwad named Will. Damn it, Will.

* * *

Jeremy makes it a few yards before he realizes he only has one shoe on. He must've lost the other one back when he was talking to Michael in Rich's car, which means… the shoe is pretty much gone forever. He won't be getting it back in this lifetime. To make both of his feet feel even, he takes off his other shoe and attempts to shove it in his pants pocket. It doesn't fit in the slightest. Damn skinny jeans. Instead, he just holds the frozen pizza box horizontally and places the shoe on top. Jeremy's phone buzzes in his pocket. He checks his lock screen. An Instagram notification. If Michael isn't calling him, he doesn't care. Jeremy places the phone back in his pocket.

In order to find Michael, he needs to think like him. If Jeremy was a slightly hipster-ish stoner with an affinity for vintage music, a lowkey 80s aesthetic, and probably more-than-slightly poisonous soft drinks, where would he go to mope? There aren't any record stores nearby, nor any comic book/video game combo stores… There isn't even a single Spencer's gifts for miles around! Jeremy decides to lower his standards to contain any of the open stores in the strip mall. From what he can tell, he has four choices; an off-brand Walmart-ish discount store, an adult superstore, a rather well-lit Five Below, and a quaint little café on the end of the row.

Jeremy mentally crosses the second one off of the list. This isn't _that_ kind of story. Also, either of them even going in there would probably break some sort of obscure law about exposing minors to less-than-unholy things. Even if either of them wanted to laugh at the ever-eccentric candy nipple tassels or the slightly horrifying animal themed ball-gags of the adult world, they would only have to go as far as their local mall's Spencer's gifts to find all that and more. Jeremy isn't entirely sure if that store is marketed towards self-proclaimed 'mature' teenagers or terribly immature adults. Hell, maybe the entire store is just a front for them to sell weird sex things to college students. Or maybe _that's_ a front in order for them to sell decade-old soda to teenagers at exorbitant prices. Because, you know, the average Spencer's would _totally_ sell _soda_ of all things out of their back room to any kid who asked politely. Either way, Michael, along with most sane people, wouldn't have gone to the adult superstore to mope.

As for the other stores, it could be any one of the three. Jeremy decides to start at the store nearest to him and make his way down the row until he reaches the café. The first store along the line is the knock-off Walmart. Taking a deep breath and mentally preparing himself to ask the employees if they've seen his friend, Jeremy slowly paces into the store. His phone buzzes again. The teen quickly checks it as he walks towards the building. This time, it's a Twitter notification. Jeremy hastily shoves the phone back in his pocket.

As soon as the teen sets foot in the store, he's greeted with multiple faces displaying varying degrees of shock.

"Oh my god! Should we call the police, or something?" One of the cashiers whispers to another, her eyes trailing Jeremy as he enters. The second cashier says nothing, his mouth agape in a semi-confused terror.

Jeremy brings a hand up to his face. It comes back coated in thick streaks of crimson. Oh, right. He's bleeding. That's a thing that's happening. And he has no shoes. He probably looks seriously fucked up right now. Jeremy kind of forgot about it, to be honest. Sure, it hurts and all, but he sort of got distracted with the pizza, then finding Michael, and the adult superstore… his face wound seriously took a back seat to all that. The teen clears his throat and turns to the cashiers.

"I- um, I need to wash up. Is there a bathroom here, or…?" His voice trails off.

"Oh! Yeah, in the back." The first cashier answers, still unsure whether to involve the law in all this. A drop of blood splashes to the floor. The second cashier brings a hand to his mouth, his face draining of all color.

"I think I'm going to be sick." He looks away from Jeremy. He wishes he had paid more attention to the 'dressing wounds' lectures when he was a Boy Scout, but he had always passed out before the troop leader could give him any useful information.

His coworker is less than impressed. "You have a girlfriend, Josh. You should be used to a little bit of blood by now."

"You know we're waiting until marriage! I'm taking my break. You deal with this, Tina." Josh throws up his hands in exasperation and speed walks to an unmarked door on the leftmost side of the store.

Tina sighs and steps out from behind the cash register. Since no other customers are in the store, she figures she might as well help this Carrie-looking kid before he smears blood all over everything. She would assume that he'd just been jumped, but for some reason he has a slightly wet looking frozen pizza. It seems unlikely that an attacker would go through all the trouble of beating someone up without taking _all_ their possessions. Unless they were vegan. Maybe she should file a police report for a vegan mugger targeting young teens who want nothing more than a bite to eat. It's all starting to make sense!

Jeremy walks a few steps ahead of Tina, hoping to clean the blood and asphalt off of his face before his face ends up looking like a Scream mask. Within a few seconds he reaches the back of the store, only to be greeted by a rather greasy-looking stockboy. Surprisingly, he seems unfazed by Jeremy's general bloodiness and dishevelment.

"The bathrooms are closed for cleaning, nya. You'll have to-"

Tina swoops in ahead of Jeremy, her eyes blazing with rage. She points an accusing finger at her coworker, her other hand placed firmly on her hip in a tight fist. "Are you _seriously_ pulling this shit again, Will?"

The stockboy's eyes widen, and he awkwardly tugs on his collar. "I, um, don't know what you mean."

"I _know_ you let your friends in through the back entrance so they can get high in the bathrooms. You're not exactly subtle about it." She crosses her arms. Jeremy can tell from her tone that this isn't the first time they've argued at work. He doesn't have a horse in this race, so he just stands back and watches everything unfold.

"It's not illegal! Gasoline is completely, 100% legal to purchase-" Will shrinks back, like a dog caught chewing its owner's shoes.

"You're not supposed to huff it, you freaking junkie!" Tina looks ready to start throwing punches, but she holds herself back, just barely.

Okay, this is getting a bit too much like a soap opera for Jeremy's liking. He turns towards the exit and takes a few steps away from the arguing pair. "Maybe I should just go…"

" _Don't!_ I'll let you use the employee bathroom. Just to keep you away from this… ugliness. Follow me. And Will, your friends better be outside in the next five minutes or your 'hidden' comic book collection is going straight down the shitter." Tina paces towards the front of the store, and Jeremy timidly tags along, taking one last look over his shoulder at the stockboy. He appears to be holding a mop as one would a sword, the wooden end held vertically in front of his face at arm's length. Jeremy shifts his focus back to following Tina.

Will stares down at his feet and mumbles quietly to himself. "It's called manga."

Jeremy follows the cashier to the side door he had seen Josh go through earlier. The room appears to be some sort of makeshift employee lounge, complete with plastic, near-broken chairs and red solo cups by an empty water cooler. Josh sits in a chair on the far side of the room, his face nearly back to its normal color. Tina puts herself between Josh and Jeremy in order to block the former's view. Josh looks up at Tina, realizes what's going on, and angrily huffs before going back to a Sudoku puzzle he was working on.

The employee bathroom is surprisingly clean, and Jeremy makes quick work of cleaning the blood and rock from his face. After all is said and done, he looks as good as is possible for a teen with terrible face injuries, no shoes, and a slight marijuana-induced high. As he's about to exit, his phone buzzes. It's a Facebook notification. Jeremy doesn't even have Facebook. With a sigh, he places his phone back in his pocket, not bothering to question the logic of it all.

In order to feel less awkward about his barely-clothed feet, he buys some blue 2 dollar flip flops and slides them on after removing his socks. The plastic is hard and uncomfortable against the bottoms of his feet, but it gets the job done. The teen decides to keep his remaining shoe and socks, though, just because dumping them would be wasteful. The socks fit in his back pocket, but the shoe remains on top of the pizza box. Jeremy thanks Tina for her help, shoots an annoyed glare in Will's general direction, and continues on his journey to find Michael.

One down, two to go. Jeremy makes a beeline for the second store in the row, Five Below. The second he steps inside, he's greeted by a frazzled looking young adult in a sweaty work apron and a messy bun.

"What happened to yo- oh, nevermind it! Just, please, _please_ don't sit on or in any merchandise." She brushes a hand across her forehead to wipe away any sweat, then she wipes that onto her apron. Yuck.

Jeremy instantly has the urge to sit on or in all merchandise within eyesight. "So, um, what would happen if I did… do that?"

The girl murmurs quietly to herself and begins walking in the other direction, continuously wiping her hands on her apron. "My manager is going to kill me… Why'd she make me lock up tonight? I can't even hold a basic job for two weeks…"

Disregarding that, Jeremy gets back to the task at hand. He takes a quick look around the store. Other than the one employee, the place looks to be completely empty. The teen hurriedly tiptoes to the back of the store, deciding to make one quick check before leaving. After spending a minute or so looking through probably-not-fair-trade electronics and less than long-lasting home gym equipment, Jeremy is about to make a break for it. Under different circumstances, some of the products would be useful, if not for anything but a good laugh. He eyes the Five Nights At Freddy's mystery boxes which are shelved precariously next to rows upon rows of pop-culture graphic tees. One of them brazenly displays a kitten riding a taco against a galaxy background. All things he would've loved non-ironically five years ago. They're all perfect gag gifts; timeless in their cringe-worthiness, yet still adored by a select few. During his search, Jeremy's phone buzzes. He ignores it and places the pizza box and his shoe on a shelf near the front of the store for safekeeping.

Despite all the amazing ironic potential, Jeremy can't help but feel a slight aversion to it all. Maybe it's the store's eerie silence or the fact that it isn't filled with rambunctious preteens as per usual, but something about the store feels… off. It's as if the one dollar technicolor phone cases and cheap makeup kits are watching his every move. Everything in the store is far too cheerful and colorful for its own good. This could be the weed or his exhaustion talking, but Jeremy thinks the whole store falls deep into the uncanny valley. Maybe the bright colors are only there to cover up some sort of sinister secret. Maybe he's in some sort of Twilight Zone episode where all the happy, bubbly products are cursed to draw victims in, like moth to a flame, until the hapless consumer _becomes_ part of the displays themselves. Sure, it's cliché, but it _could_ happen, right? At the very least, Jeremy thinks something suspicious is going on. The entire store seems to be stuck in 2010. Hell, even the bin of discount emoji pillows appears to be… breathing? Yet again, his phone buzzes. Jeremy ignores it.

Determined to fulfill his destiny as the white boy in every horror movie, Jeremy walks over to the pillow bin with reckless abandon. The pillows quiver and shake to a slight degree. A cry-laughing emoji falls at just the right angle so that it's looking right at him. Or, you know, it _would_ be, if the eyes were open. The tall teen takes a step back, intimidated. Without turning his back to the bin (for his own safety) he awkwardly makes his way towards the store's front entrance. There's obviously some witchcraft bullshit going on here, and he has _no_ plans to be a part of it. Before he can exit, however, the solitary employee blocks his path. Jeremy backs into her, letting out a yelp of surprise, and promptly trips over himself into a display of 'quirky' posters and metal wall hangings. The building is filled with deafening _clangs_ and the clattering of metal and paper as they collide with the floor below. One reading "KEEP OUT: GAMER AT PLAY" smacks Jeremy square in the face. Jeremy's phone buzzes three times in rapid succession.

The pillow pile shifts again, this time with more gusto. Fuuuuuuck.

The worker steps back in shock, then, after taking in the situation, gets on her knees to begin picking up the posters and wall hangings. She gripes to herself, not even bothering to lower her voice this time. "Just perfect! All this mess to clean and ten minutes until closing time. Wow, Sarah, what a great way to spend your evenings! I'm so glad I got that liberal arts degree!" After shoving a few of the products into their respective spaces, she turns to a still-dazed Jeremy. " _You._ I saw you over there. If _he_ put you up to this… you can just leave this store and never come back!"

As tempting as that sounds, Jeremy tries to defend himself. "Hm? Wh- who? I don't talk to the devil! I mean, I don't think I did, did I?" That went about as smoothly as he expected. What is he being accused of, exactly? Did he accidentally summon a demon? Maybe this store is built on an ancient Indian burial ground.

Sarah is just as befuddled. "The devil? I mean, he's being rude, but I wouldn't call him a _devil_." Seeing the look of sincere confusion on Jeremy's face, her wrath subsides. "The boy hiding in the home décor section? In the pillow display, to be exact. He didn't ask you to do this?"

Hmmm. Michael _does_ have a thing for stowing away in enclosed spaces when he's upset. It's an oddly specific thing to do, but everyone has their quirks. Some people punch walls or count down from ten, but for others it's a bit more complicated than that. Jeremy, for example, prefers to blast Linkin Park on full blast to calm down, simply because the music is so edgy he can't help but feel calm in comparison. Like a Taming of the Shrew for angsty teenagers. Back to the task at hand, the teen pulls himself to his feet and turns to the worker. "Um… no. But, actually, I think I can help you out. Just leave everything to me and I'll get him out of here, no problem." His phone vibrates wildly in his pocket.

The relief is visible on the employee's face. "Oh, thank _God._ Please be quick, though! I'm supposed to close before 2 AM."

A nearby wall clock tells Jeremy that he has roughly fifteen minutes to do this. That should be more than enough time. Hopefully. After everything that's happened tonight, Jeremy isn't really sure what to expect. He seriously thought demons were coming to get him just a minute ago. The tall teen walks over to the bin of emoji pillows, pausing along the way to grab and slip on a poop emoji mask.

"Michaelll."

"Ugh." A quiet voice murmurs from behind layers of polyester fabric and fluff. "Just go away."

Jeremy stands firmly in place. "I'm not leaving without you, buddy."

"Go home, Jeremy. I just want to be alone." The pillow pile shifts. It seems as if Michael is burying himself further in the mountain of pillows.

Jeremy takes a step closer to the bin. He isn't going to force Michael out of the pillow pile, partly because that wouldn't make him feel better and partly because he doesn't want to put his hands anywhere near the emoji pillows. "I'm seriously not leaving. Not until you come out and say it to my face."

Michael just sounds… tired. Completely and utterly exhausted. "I won't-"

"Come up and say 'I don't want to talk to you, Jeremy,' to my face. Right here. One on one. No hiding or distractions or changing the subject. Say it to me."

The shorter teen groans. His voice reaches the exhaustion levels of a pre-med student studying for midterms. "Jeremy…"

"I'm not moving until you do. You can't stay in there forever, you know. I mean, I _guess_ you could, but you would probably starve or get dehydrated, unless you went all Bear Grylls and drank your own-"

"Alright, I'm up. What do you want?" Michael pops his head up between a heart-eyes and a '100' emoji pillow. His eyes are red and puffy, and his glasses are nowhere in sight. He blinks for a second, his eyes adjusting to the light, before it dawns on him. He stares at the soulless, shitty, _emoji_ mask for a moment, then bursts into peals of laughter. He continues laughing for an obscene amount of time. After about thirty seconds, Jeremy tries to begin an on-the-fly monologue.

"Look, I'll be honest. I've been a real _shit_ head tonight, and I'm sorry."

Michael wheezes with laughter for a second, then clears his throat to talk. "Was all this a setup for that one joke?"

A lifetime of listening to shitty Dad jokes has prepared Jeremy for this moment. "I have more. I know I've made you pretty _emoji_ nal, so-"

"Oh my _God_ , Jer." He rubs his eyes, still giggling to himself.

Jeremy seems proud of himself. "I don't want you to have to _mask_ your emotions anymore. There are so many _cons to pat_ ronizing yourself. Is this translating well? It's a pun on-"

"Constipated. Got it. Are you done yet?" Michael secretly hopes he won't be done. Ever. This is too good.

"Almost. As _crappy_ as this situation seems, you shouldn't _flush_ your hopes down the drain just yet." The taller teen can't keep himself from giggling as well. Michael's laugh is pretty infectious.

"And why is that? Are we finally graduating from second grade humor?" Michael sits up in the pillow pile, pulling his upper body out of the mess.

Jeremy shakes his head. "Not a chance. I have something much better."

"Better than a tirade of toilet humor? Gee, what could possibly be better than that?"

"See for yourself." Jeremy takes out his phone, which has been buzzing pretty consistently for the past few minutes. His lockscreen displays a myriad of notifications from various social media websites, all containing messages from various peers all either calling him one of many slurs or questioning his interaction with Rich. None of the messages are nice, but none of the messages involve Michael.

The shorter teen grabs the phone and watches the notifications pour in, a look of pure amazement on his face, although not completely in a good way. " _Holy shit!_ What did you say to him?" After a moment he adds, "Our highschool fucking sucks. Wow." Jeremy nods in agreement as Michael furrows his eyebrows. Teenagers can be mean. It's best not to think about it too much, or he'll get sad again. "I mean, you must've sold your soul to get this sort of response."

Jeremy rubs the back of his neck. "Well, I, um, propositioned him."

Michael's eyes widen in surprise. "You _what?_ Jeremy, there's no way you're going to live this one down. Rich isn't going to let you forget about this. Nobody will."

But the taller teen isn't convinced. "Has your phone gone off at all tonight? Any notifications from anyone on _any_ website?"

Michael shrugs and quickly checks his phone. "Well, one of those spam accounts followed my Instagram, but that's about it."

Jeremy takes his phone back from Michael. "Exactly. You're home free. Nobody knows anything."

"But Rich- he _heard-"_

"I think I managed to convince him otherwise. I told him you were bisexual, but I'm not sure how much of it he believed. I mean, it looks like it worked well enough."

That might come back to bite Michael later. It's much better than the alternative, though, as morally grey as the area is. "What about you? I can't just stand by and watch everyone at school treat you like shit for the next three years."

Jeremy seems pretty sure of himself. "I'll survive. I mean, once I get Christine, it'll make Rich look like a liar, right?"

"Right..." Jeremy actually getting together with Christine seems… unlikely, to say the least. But it could happen. Just like how elves could be alive and controlling the innermost levels of our traffic system. There's nothing proving it wrong. Technically.

Jeremy takes off his mask. It was getting pretty hot under there. Seeing the slightly bloody scratches and bruises, Michael reels back.

"Dude, what happened to your face?"

Again, Jeremy had forgotten about his wounds. Maybe it would be best if Michael didn't get all the details. It would just cause him to worry, and that's the last thing either of them need right now. "Oh, this? I- um… tripped. Coming out of the car."

Michael can see straight through Jeremy's lie. It isn't that difficult, and Jeremy isn't that good at lying, especially while high. "You don't have to lie to me. Did Rich do this because he thought… you were gay?" Sure, Rich is a notorious bully, but this could be… dangerous, to say the least.

The taller teen stares down at the floor, slightly embarrassed. "I mean, kind of. He really lost it after I offered to give him a handjob."

Michael makes a sound like a kettle of boiling water. "Did he-" He chokes on his laughter. "Did he say yes?"

Jeremy can't help but laugh in spite of himself. He giggles, snorts, and continues talking. "Like, nearly, dude. He was super into it. Until he threw me to the ground and kicked me in the ribs."

The shorter teen has a solemn look of surprise on his face all of the sudden. "Woah, woah, woah. That's serious stuff, Jer. You could go to the police with that."

Jeremy brushes him off. "I'm probably a bit too stoned to talk to the cops."

"That's true, but you really shouldn't let Rich treat you like that. All jokes aside, it's not okay." Michael is fairly certain most of the shit Rich pulled tonight could be classified as assault. And possibly a hate crime.

Yet again, Jeremy brushes him off. "I know. I just don't want to start anything. I'll survive."

Michael gives Jeremy a worried look and drags himself out of emoji hell. He can tell he isnt' going to change Jeremy's mind. "Well, I guess we should get going home." He then realizes that their ride stranded them, among other things. "So… about that…"

"Let me just call an Uber." Jeremy pulls out his phone.

"You could've called an Uber this _entire time?"_

"Nah, I don't have the app. Can you imagine, though?"

" _Jesus,_ don't play me like that."

Jeremy snickers and throws an arm around Michael's shoulder. Michael takes a step towards the store's entrance, then stops himself.

"Before we head out, I have something I should tell you."

Jeremy almost trips as Michael steps away, but he catches himself. "I doubt anything else could shock me, but go ahead."

Michael has a look of complete seriousness on his face. "Well, while I was in the pillow stack, I was kind of looking really closely at the wee-" He looks towards the front of the store. The employee is pretending to be restocking an already-full aisle. Almost ashamed, he stares down at his feet. "Um, _stuff_ and I found out… it was actually **oregano**."

"Like the herb? No, dude. You're not serious. This whole time? _No."_ Jeremy runs a hand through his hair, trying to take it all in. He really dropped the ball on this one.

Michael sighs and looks away. He fidgets with his sweatshirt sleeves. "I guess I got the bags mixed up. So everything you felt was just a placebo."

Jeremy has a look on his face like he just found out his IKEA meatballs were made of horse meat. "Oh my god, dude. I ate an entire bag of chips in ten minutes. I got multiple girls banned from the grocery store by _lying_ about them. _I told Rich I would give him a handjob_. That was all… just me?"

Michael's face breaks out into a broad smile. "Nah, dude, I'm totally fucking with you. It was all the real deal."

" _Michael."_

"Or was it?"

" _Please!"_

Michael bursts into a fit of laughter. The store employee gives the two of them an annoyed look. Jeremy, solidly confused, now looks like his meatballs were made of pelican meat.

"It was real, calm down. Can you imagine, though? But, ah, it looks like we have quite a bit of walking to do." The shorter teen snickers and pats Jeremy on the shoulder, partially to keep himself from doubling over in laughter.

The relief hits Jeremy like a truck. Full of mattresses. Payback's a bitch, huh? "We might want to get started on that soon. Although, there _is_ a café a few doors down we can stop by first if you're up for it. I'll pay. You deserve some sort of treat after everything tonight."

"I thought you only had five dollars." The shorter teen crosses his arms. He tries to sound serious, but he's still a bit giggly.

Jeremy can't keep himself from cracking a smile. "That was a lie. I just didn't want to pay for the booze and chips."

"I don't know why I put up with you." Michael gives Jeremy a light slug in the arm.

That kind of hurt. Or maybe his arm is just a bit bruised from when he was shoved out of Rich's car. "Not even I can answer that. You down for some coffee?"

"Make that a tea and I'm in." Michael would _kill_ for some cinnamon tea right about now. Or maybe an Earl Gray. Or mint! Maybe a nice English Breakfast… everything sounds delicious.

Jeremy seems just as excited, but he just wants some more snacks to wolf down before the walk home. "You drive a hard bargain. I think I'll let you get some… as long as you give me a hug before we go."

"You're so cheesy, Jer." Michael wraps his arms around Jeremy and gives him a tight squeeze. Jeremy returns the awkward friend hug with slightly less force. It feels great to have his best friend back, even if he only lost him for an hour or so. Jeremy savors the hug for another moment, then kind of dozes off for a second. The store's broken AC and Michael's sweatshirt made him feel pretty warm, and it _is_ far past when he usually goes to sleep. After blinking himself awake, Jeremy remembers where he is and goes in for another hug. Michael is happy to oblige.

The two head for the front door of the store, both in far better spirits than when they arrived. Just before they take their first step out of the store, Jeremy's phone buzzes four times in rapid succession. He's about to ignore it, but he remembers that he had set his text notification to buzz differently than all of his other apps, so he would be able to recognize it. Nobody from school should have his number, aside from Michael and a few others.

Jeremy pulls out his phone to reveal a paragraph of exclamation marks and a long-winded explanation of something or other full of run on sentences that the teen can't be bothered to read until he looks up and realizes the text was sent by Christine Canigula. Jeremy can't keep himself from shaking with excitement for long enough to read the text in its entirety, but he can make out the gist of it.

"Hey! I didnt know you were into theater but I totally understand the last minute panic haha

If you want some pointers you could come to one of the drama club meetings in the auditorium

We always meet after school on Mondays and Wednesdays and I know a few people who would be glad to help you out! Were always looking for new members too! Itd be great to see you there!"

The text then spends several paragraphs asking about the length, time period, emotional composition, and various other aspects of the scene Jeremy is supposed to be auditioning with. He gets a few glimpses of 'insomnia' and 'cant sleep' among the theater talk, but he can't devote any thought to that if he wants to try and understand the rest of the message. The text is riddled with theater phrases Jeremy doesn't know the meaning of. What the hell is a sonnet, exactly? Or an aside? If you know what the fourth wall is, comment down below.

Jeremy knows nothing about theater. Jeremy is completely boned. But he made progress, and that's what matters.

"What'cha looking at? Another Game of Thrones leak?" Michael comes up behind him, looking over his shoulder at the phone. "Or is the social media stuff starting to get to you? Whatever they're saying, just don't even think about it."

Still jittery, Jeremy holds his phone out to Michael. After taking it and skimming through the text, Michael gives his friend a hearty pat on the back. "Hey! That's great! I mean, I didn't really expect you to get this far. Now you have to either extend the lie further or blow her off completely."

No matter what Jeremy does, he'll probably end up being hated by Christine. But if he keeps lying, Christine would hate him _later._ And later isn't _right now_ , so that's all that Jeremy cares about. "The first one, definitely. What do you know about theater?"

"I know _of it._ As in, it exists. That's about it, though." Michael could never perform in front of an audience. There's too much room for error there. Even doing presentations in class is enough to give him sweaty palms and an upset stomach.

The taller teen completely disables the filter between his brain and mouth. "Aren't gay guys supposed to-"

"If you value our friendship and your phone, which- might I mention- is still in my hands, you won't finish that sentence." Michael makes a show of holding the phone high above his head, enough that a drop from that height would completely shatter the phone.

Jeremy huffs and crosses his arms. "I'm the only one who's allowed to throw my phone on the ground. It's like, my trademark now."

"Let's keep it that way. And, hey, Shakespeare is supposed to be popular, right? Since they force everyone to read it in English class, you know? Find a Romeo and Juliet scene to perform for her. It's romantic, or something." After hesitating for a second, the shorter teen hands Jeremy his phone, safe and sound.

Jeremy pockets it. He'll have to think of a more coherent plan while sober. "Nothing says 'true love' quite like killing yourself for a guy you've known for less than a week."

"Is that Romeo and Juliet or The Bachelor?" Michael is pretty proud of himself for that subpar reference.

Jeremy's eyes widen. "Wait, shit, is that what the show is all about?"

Michael takes a deep breath. Here we go. "Probably. I never really got into those kinds of shows. There was one, though, where some random dude just so happens to look like Prince Harry and a harem of women all have to fight for his affection while going on expensive dates with him at some lavish English castle. And all the girls thought they were getting the chance to marry a prince, but he turns out to be completely broke in the end. It's like Aladdin, but with less magic and more dream-crushing reality."

Jeremy slams both hands on Michael's shoulders. He has a fire in his eyes, parallel to that of a medieval knight avenging the murder of his family. "Oh my God, dude. Clear your schedule. I know what we're doing for the rest of the night."

The shorter teen smiles. "Sounds great! But we might want to get moving soon. That girl is starting to give us some serious side-eye."

After Jeremy quickly grabs the pizza and his one shoe, the two make their way out of the store into the cool night air. It's a bit chilly, but neither of them notice, mostly due to either their clothing or the fact that they're still too high to notice. Through the wispy clouds above, they can just make out the subtle twinkling of stars against the night sky. It mystifies the pair for a moment; knowing they're both so tiny in an infinitely expanding universe. It's almost sobering. Jeremy gazes too far up and almost loses his balance, and then he turns to Michael.

"All in all, tonight wasn't so bad."

Michael doesn't break his gaze towards the sky, his eyebrows furrowed. "No, it was kind of terrible. We both got pummeled by Rich, I nearly got outed to the entire school, you'll probably never hear the end of it from all the uber-masculine jocks… and all of it was over a pizza."

Jeremy falls silent for a moment. Sure, sometimes life can be shit, but he can't just resign himself to that. "Yeah, but I got to spend the night with you. I mean, mostly. You kind of lost me for a while there. But I think we kind of got closer as friends, you know? I mean, think about it. We went into this expecting to just get high and play video games for a while, and look at us now!"

The shorter teen crosses his arms. He sounds a bit more solemn now. "We're both bloody and bruised, if that's what you mean. And out of $60."

"Michael, look. You're probably my favorite person on this planet. On any planet. Even if we get pushed around or mocked or made fun of, at least we'll always be here for each other. And, maybe, we'll be stronger because of it." Jeremy looks over at Michael. It's difficult to be completely sure, but Jeremy is almost certain his gaze is softer.

And as the two stare up at the stars, Jeremy can't help but feel almost peaceful. Despite everything that had tried to bring him down throughout the night, Michael was always there to bring him up, and Jeremy had helped bring Michael up, too. Maybe tonight was about more than getting high and having goofy adventures around town.

Even if the night had its faults, he almost wishes it could last longer.

"You know, it's like Bob Marley always said. Don't worry about a thing…"

"Are you seriously trying to make _Bob Marley_ lyrics sound deep and existential?" Michael looks at Jeremy for a moment, sees the passion in his eyes, and decides to stop giving a shit. "'Cause every little thing…"

"…Is gonna be all right." They're both terribly off key and Jeremy finishes about a half-second after Michael, but they couldn't care less.

The starts almost seem to be smiling above them.

"Hey Michael?"

"Yeah, Jer?"

"Can we promise to never turn our backs on each other? These next few weeks might be… difficult."

"I was thinking the same thing."

"So it's a promise?"

"Promise."

* * *

To everyone who made it this far, thank you for reading.

It's been quite the journey, and I hope everyone else had as much fun with this as I did. Unfortunately, I just started college, so I'm not sure how much free time I'll have to write any more stories (especially anything longer than one chapter), but you never know. We'll just have to wait and see.

Have a good one, guys.

-A


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